Alias Ad Hoc
by Flipping Seltzer
Summary: 'What If' Fic. What if no one ever told Neal that his dad was a dirty cop? How would Neal and the gangs lives have changed with one decision. Neal as a cop, Peter's not the boss, Mozzie's still Mozzie! Neal/Peter friendship, P/E, N/S. chapter 11 now up!
1. Chapter 1

AN: Hello. I've been completely neglecting everything else so I could put together an outline for this! Ah procrastination- the best way to get anything done! So I really enjoy the idea of Neal's dad being dirty and how that affected how he saw the world and his place in it. This is a 'What If' fic that basically revolves around what could have happened if no one ever told Neal his dad was dirty and he went to the academy as planned. The other characters are all effected accordingly. I really like how this first chapter turned out and I hope you will too.

I disclaim- I own nothing except the characters that I create.

Prologue

This day could not get any worse. Alex Hunter stuffed her hands into the soft fur of her jacket pockets and cursed Mozzie. The paranoid little megalomaniac was the only person she knew who would set up a meet in below freezing temperatures outside. The balding thief was somewhere in the area she was sure, making sure she didn't cheat him. Despite the blatant distrust, the fence couldn't be that upset with him- Mozzie didn't trust anyone, didn't care about anyone as far as she knew, so she didn't take it that personally.

That would change if she lost her extremities to frost bite though.

Her buyer was already five minutes late and she was quickly losing her patience. Nothing had gone smoothly today. This morning her landlord had given her notice, informing her that he was kicking her out so his bitch of a wife could give the apartment to her son. Then, some jackass had spilled his coffee on her when she tried to pick his pocket and after all that all he'd had in his wallet was twenty bucks and punch card for a free sandwich. Now her new client wasn't even showing up?

Her mother was right- she should have married Bobby Nuyck and popped out babies in some Chicago suburb. Bobby Nuyck's wife was probably in a Starbucks of her own somewhere, warm with her fat babies and Stepford friends, discussing knitting or someone's divorce. Bobby would never let his wife stand on a dirty New York street corner waiting for some low life to drop a suitcase of cash while a Napoleonic obsessive compulsive skulked in the shadows.

She smiled and shook out of her day dreams as she watched her client finally approach, the moron waving his hand jauntily as he bopped towards her with his suitcase swinging beside him.

On the other hand, Bobby Nuyck's wife was probably two hundred pounds and thought Chicago was the biggest city on Earth. She eyed the approaching suitcase and imagined herself on a beach in Monaco- screw her landlord, who needed an apartment when you had the world.

Alex was so busy watching her future swing along towards her she never saw the car whipping around the corner.

But Mozzie did. Across the street, hidden under a coat and hat, the ex-mobster watched as the body that had been Alex was thrown violently into the street. He debated, momentarily, crossing to check on her, but instead stood and slipped out the door was the crowd surged towards the accident.

It wasn't worth the trouble.

Chapter 1

Special Agent Peter Burke was sick and tired of the talking head in front of him. The baby cop had been spitting the same bull for over a half hour now, effectively blocking his access to the scene but utterly frustrating the sandy haired FBI agent. "So you see sir, agent, that I just can't let you in until your supervisor gets here and officially tells my supervisor that you're in charge. So really, it's the supervisors that are causing the holdup sir, not me, although next time you may want to just come down after your supervisor. I've always said- never go anywhere without your sergeant telling you first, because otherwise you just end up waiting-"

"What's the damn hold up Pete?" Supervisory Special Agent Colin Kent's clipped tones broke the beat cops monologue but it didn't make Burke feel any better.

"They won't let me in the damn crime scene until you talk to their detective." Peter didn't appreciate the implication that it was his fault. He sent a look at Jones, his probie, checking to make sure the man was still out of earshot. "What took you so long- the call came in an hour ago."

Kent clipped his badge to the front of his suit and sent a glare at his second in command. "Watch it Burke- don't forget who's in charge." With that he pushed by the NYPD drone and marched towards the homicide detective lingering over the victim's body. Peter turned away, frustrated, unwilling to go help out his boss. He stalked over to the curb where he pretended to look for security cameras, but really just seethed about Kent's cruel comment. The man knew how much Burke had wanted the promotion to supervisor, how much he needed the pay grade raise so he could help El with her business costs and pay off his fucking college loans. Peter knew that the man knew, because it had been Peter himself who had confided in his old partner when the position had opened up.

Kent, who came from old Boston money and dressed in fancy suits, hadn't needed the money and didn't care enough to really throw himself into the job. Not like Peter. Peter had slaved over his application statement, prepped for his interview, had worn his best suit- blue, red tie- to the interview—and had been systematically and thoroughly destroyed for his lack of experience as a lead.

But it was hardly his fault that he worked well on a team, and that he'd never caught his 'big fish'. Most of the big criminals had Interpol agents working their cases and every forger Peter hunted down ended up being small time or part of some larger bust he wasn't given credit for; but he knew he was a good agent. Knew that he was supervisor material and could handle the big cases.

Could handle them better than Colin Kent. Or at least just as well.

Colin Kent was an ass, but he was a good agent. More importantly, as least as far as Hughes and the other directors were concerned, he had more experience with the press and interagency diplomacy. Which meant, Peter thought bitterly, he looked better in a photo op. Colin could charm just about anyone if he wanted and he was unbeatable in interrogation. Peter knew all this, but he still felt slighted, still felt like he'd been passed over unfairly because of office politicking.

"You look like someone just ran over your dog." A smooth, female voice interrupted his foul thoughts. Sara Ellis stepped beside him, looking ridiculously glamorous for below freezing weather.

He couldn't help the small smile that spread across his face when her words registered. "Not my dog. Just my suspect."

The slender insurance agent titled her head, raising an eyebrow at the argument that was ensuing over their dead thief. "I heard. Accident?"

Peter cracked his neck. "I wish I knew. The damn PD won't let me close enough to even confirm that she's actually dead. For all I know there's a sack of potatoes lying under that sheet." Sara smiled at him, then pulled him behind her as she dazzled the baby cop and snuck under the scene tape. "You would be a good criminal, you know that Ellis?"

"Isn't it scary?" The auburn haired woman grinned and lopped her arm through his. "Don't worry Burke, I only use my powers for good."

"Well that's a relief." Kent interjected, souring Peter's mood once again. "Ms. Ellis. I won't bother asking how you got into my crime scene."

"Yours?" the smaller man bristled.

The supervisory agent grinned. "Only as far as the NYPD are concerned Pete. This is your case- god knows I've got enough crap on my desk to keep me busy for a month. I'd say this looks like a simple buy gone wrong but I'm sure you'll find a great conspiracy somewhere." He chuckled to himself. Sara and Peter stayed quiet. "NYPD is processing the body and dealing with the forensics, but the actual murder and missing painting are all yours. NYPD liaison will contact you ASAP." He slapped Burke on the back and headed back to his car, which was parked illegally in the fire lane.

Peter tried to not imagine shooting him in the back as he left. Sara interrupted his fantasy once more. "What an ass."

Peter tried not to grin. "That's my boss you know."

"No that's an ass." She turned to face him. "I can't believe they gave him a promotion- the man couldn't find a painting in a museum."

Although he would have loved to complain about Kent for a few more hours Peter bit his tongue, aware that it was unprofessional and his probie and half the NYPD were watching him. "Let's just take a look." He sent Sara a look. "Unless you'd rather just wait until I process the scene?"

Sara looked a little pale but shook her head. "No, let's just get this over with. My boss has been calling non-stop wanting to know if the Velasquez has been damaged and if I'm going to throw up today, I'd rather do it now—I ate a lot of carbs for breakfast and my gym membership expired."

He shook his head at his sarcastic colleague and motioned Jones over. "Help me with the sheet." He and the younger man knelt, carefully pulling back the covering.

Alex Hunter was not nearly as beautiful in death. Her pelvis and legs had taken most of the damage inflicted by the car, but it was clear that it was the impact with the sidewalk was cause of death. Her hair was matted with blood, skull split open grotesquely in the back. Blood had been smeared on her face, EMTs resuscitation efforts making her pale, empty face more macabre. Peter heard Sara quick intake of breath, heard her heels clatter to the edge of the scene where she vomited her large breakfast. "Boss?" Jones inquired.

"Leave her. She'll be fine." And a strong woman like Sara Ellis wouldn't appreciate being coddled. "What do you see?"

The new agent examined the body, his own dark face uncharacteristically pale. "Cause of death appears to be cranial damage, blunt force trauma from a vehicle. From the main point of impact we can assume it was a sedan and not a truck or van. No way to tell specifics at the moment though. There was no money found at the scene so we can assume that the drop never went down or that the buyer panicked and took his money without bothering to grab the painting."

"Or the buyer was the one to run her down." Peter added softly, carefully pulling the courier tube from the corpses grasp as he heard Sara approaching again. Jones pulled the sheet up and Peter gave him a nod, appreciating the gesture. "Well let's see what we've got." Unscrewing the damn plastic tubs was always harder with gloves on, but Peter managed the thing, tipping it slightly, hand posed to grab the famous Spanish bogeta before it could hit the blood stained ground.

Nothing.

He tipped it a little more. Still nothing.

"Fuck." Sara uncharacteristically swore. He couldn't have summed it up better.

AN: I killed Alex! I know- I'm terrible. But I just had no way to work her in otherwise but I really wanted to include her. So what did we think? Neal is going to be in the next chapter I promise!


	2. Chapter 2

I disclaim.

Chapter 2

"All I want to know is who the first responders to my scene were?" Peter asked through gritted teeth, trying to refrain from slapping the superior look of the NYPD Captains face.

The small man grinned and leaned forward, pretending to think, clearly wanting to extend the moment as long as possible. "So you Feds lose a priceless painting and now you want to push it off on my guys?" He leaned back. "Agent Burke, I can assure you, no NYPD officer stole your bodega." Captain Welts was no fan of the federal government coming in and taking his scene and it showed in his utter lack of hospitality.

"Bogeta." Peter corrected, standing. This clearly was going nowhere.

"Whatever." The cop waved a hand in the air, gleeful. "My boys didn't do anything but watch the paramedics declare her and secure the scene until the detective's arrived. And not five minutes later you showed up. And even if they did, the union reps already in the building so you can talk to them once you have a warrant." He clapped his hands and stood, waving someone into the room. "Now, Burke I believe you also wanted to meet your liaison?" Peter eyed the uniformed man warily; he seemed almost ridiculously happy for a man about to be down a detective. The door opened and Peter half turned to see a lean, handsome man enter.

"Sir?" The man ducked his head respectfully as he entered eyes on the floor. Peter snorted. He had no patience for bootlickers.

"Reilly, this is Agent Burke— you'll be his problem for a few days." Instead of the appreciative rapport of a boss and crony, Peter only heard disgust and a twinge of hate. Burke, this is Detective Neal Reilly, property crimes."

Peter frowned. "What happened to Jason?" Last time they'd had a case like this Jason Hittle had been on the property beat- they'd gotten along pretty well.

"Wife moved them out to Queens- he transferred." Captain Welts smirked. "Reilly here just transferred in himself. From _St. Louis_. Isn't that right kid?" The federal agent had the feeling that something was going on that he wasn't privy to.

Reilly's head rose so he could meet his captain's eyes. Peter was surprised at both the black eye and the hate in them. But the dark look was gone as quickly as it appeared. In its place was a calm, blank look devoid of feeling. "Oh it's been almost a year sir."

Almost a year? Peter did the math in his head- he supposed it had been almost a year since he'd last been in this station. He supposed vying for that promotion had skewed his normal sense of time. "Nice to meet you Detective Reilly." He put out a hand, which was accepted after a small pause. Reilly met his eyes and Peter was struck by just how blue the man's irises were. But the man didn't smile, merely racking his eyes of Peter, appraising him even though it was Peter who was in control, Peter who was going to be evaluating him. "Do you have any experience in art theft?"

"This is New York, Agent Burke. If I didn't I'd be a pretty bored property detective." The words were teasing and light, but the man's face hardly changed, except for a crinkling at the corner of his eyes.

Welts frowned tightly. "Reilly has a high closure rate." He looked like he was sucking on a lemon as he complimented the man. But the expression evened out as he added, "Be sure to use him on any undercover work Burke. The detective is very good at… playing both sides." Whatever lightness had been in Reilly's face fled at that comment and the man simply walked out of the office, leaving Peter to excuse them and follow. Yes, something was going on here, and Peter would be damned if he didn't get to the bottom of it—the NYPD wasn't about to use him to further their own agenda… whatever agenda it was.

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Mozzie checked the hallway once more; sure that someone was going to bound up the steps at any moment. This was why he worked alone and avoided amateurs. To avoid having to retrieve his own loot. He stole it once—why should he have to go through the trouble of finding it again.

He should have known better, taking a job blind. But the money had been good and the job had been somewhat challenging. The security system had been taken down for him, which made the whole thing a cake walk, but Alex had said it was all taken care of, an inside job for an insurance pay off.

But now Alex was dead.

And Bean Briar said that someone had been asking around, looking for her partner on the Velasquez heist. Wanting to know where the damn painting was.

Mozzie sure as hell was interested in that himself.

When he'd left Alex's yesterday morning before the meet, the girl had been pissed off, but calm. She hadn't said anything about being worried and she wouldn't have dared to double cross him. So what the hell had happened between this apartment and the meet? And where had the painting disappeared to?

NYPD didn't have it, FBI didn't have it, and apparently, the buyer didn't have it. So what the hell was going on?

He didn't appreciate his people dying on him out of the blue. It was why he'd gotten out of the mob business and into the gentleman thief business—Alex hadn't been his friend, but she'd never been his enemy and he owed it to her to suss this out. The lock finally gave under his ministrations and he slipped inside his ex-fences apartment, looking for anything that might give him a clue. Better yet, just finding the painting would be nice. The balding man sighed and ran a gloved hand over his skull—lately it seemed like nothing was going his way. He suspected that the government was behind it, slowly ruining his life until they had him so rattled he'd turn himself in. But it would be a cold day in hell that he caved to the establishment and so he squared his shoulders and began systematically searching the room.

He had to move quickly. It was only a matter of time until the Feds got their heads out of their asses and headed over.

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Peter caught up to Reilly at his desk where the detective was shoveling old food from the surface into a waste bin he had lined up with the edge. Peter's lip curled as he spotted an old take out container with what looked like maggots crawling inside. "That's disgusting."

"I agree." Reilly's hand swept a ruler across the top of his desk in sharp, angry movements.

"Then why the hell is it on your desk kid?"

Reilly smacked the ruler hard on the edge of the desk to remove any lingering mess from its side. "I didn't put it there." He replied tightly. Peter caught the flush of embarrassment in the words and glanced subtly around. A few desks over a cluster of detectives were smirking in the young man's direction, elbowing each other. One flapped a takeout menu at Reilly when the dark head turned towards them. "I have to take this out or the cleaners'll throw a fit." The young man didn't wait for a response but headed towards the exit, trashbag full of filth at his side.

Peter couldn't help but flush in anger at the casual bullying. He didn't know Reilly, and honestly the boy seemed like an aloof robot, but he also wasn't going to watch as the kid was tortured by his own department. He walked over to the group, placing himself directly in front of who he assumed was the ringleader. The man looked up. Greying, Peter was disgusted to see he was older than even the Agent and should know better. "Last time I checked, hazing was against department regulations." He casually stated. Staring down in what he knew was an intimidating manner.

"Last time I checked, it's none of the FBIs damn business." The leader, a Detective Gaddler, according to his nameplate, responded just as coolly.

"It is when I'm working with the man. Lay off him boys." Having said his peace and not willing to expend any more energy on what may be lost cause, he turned to leave.

"I'd watch my back if I were you." One of the younger men muttered, turning back to their own desks.

Peter stopped and turned, dark frown of confusion on his face- had that been a threat or a warning? "Excuse me?" The man who'd spoken said nothing further, glaring moodily at the reports on his desk.

Instead Gaddler spoke again. "You'll have to excuse Alder- kids these days, they don't know when to quit." The man stood, and Peter realized that the man had a good six inches on him. "But if you don't mind taking a little advice, old timer to old timer, you'll watch Reilly. He may 'forget' to watch your six, if you know what I mean."

"Don't warn me with a cliché. You want to tell me something, be a man, tell me. But cut the bullshit."

"Fine. You want the truth, Mr. Fed, Reilly's dirty. His old man was dirty, and so is the kid. But he sits around here, pretends to be one of us, that pisses me off- so don't tell me to be a man Fed, because a man would take that pathetic excuse for a cop out back and shoot him." With that the old detective left, grabbing his coat as he left, his two friends following a moment after. Reilly had the poor luck to be coming back in when they exited and the kid was jostled a little too violently than was strictly necessary.

The kid sighed as he dropped his trashcan to the ground. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair and looked at Peter. For the first time, the FBI agent saw a lingering expression on the cops face. Reilly grinned tiredly. "Where to Agent Burke?"

Peter stared at the innocent expression. Then he turned and walked away.

AN: So... thoughts? Did I play Neal right? Any thoughts on characters?


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thanks for all the great reviews! I was so inspired I completely ignored everything I had to do at work to finish this chapter! And although I ate the people that go on forever at the beginning of a chapter I'm going to do so here, because I suck at PM responding!

**Michelle**: I'm glad that someone else was thinking like me! I was sort of concerned that no else would be interested!

**TrueLoveLiveForever**: Oh yes Neal and Peter are going to be a badass team to defeat all teams! I'm going to whump them first though.

**StoryUnfolding**: I'm not sure if Neal's going to head to the FBI—in my mind his identity is completely caught up in being a cop I'm not sure I want him to sell out to the Feds. As for the longer chapters… maybe, but I'm not going to try for it. When I do that I tend to take forever updating.

**Gerhuven**, **Pechika**, **PainatliGiorno**, and **Whoaaitsmichele**: Thanks for the nice words! I definitely will keep going with this story!

**Wclover**: Yea, I'd say Neal was pretty shocked when the truth came out—I'm planning to do a flashback or maybe just a little therapy session where we find out how he figured it out.

**LianneZ4**: Thanks! I really enjoy seeing how people's lives would have changed with Neal being involved one way or another! Don't worry—the bullies will get their rewards!

Chapter 3

Neal sighed as he watched the FBI Agent walk away from him. A quick glance at the empty desks of his tormentors told Neal all that he needed to know—Burke knew about his father. Which meant he had lost the man's trust before he'd even properly met him.

He should never have tried to deal with the garbage; he should have just walked right out the door with Burke.

After all, the rotten food would be back as soon as he left. He at least had to give his colleagues points for being inventive. Dirty to rotten wasn't a terrible jump, and it was a hell of a lot more interesting than spray paint on his car. And his locker. And his clothes. St. Louis had been hard on his wardrobe. (St. Louis had been hard for a lot of reasons.) But no one in New York cared enough to bother actually hitting him, unless of course, he shot his mouth off.

Which he did a lot.

He slipped his jacket on and grabbed his fedora from his desk drawer. He locked the desk back up—it was only way to ensure produce didn't migrate there—and slipped out of the room as stealthily as possible. Once in the sunshine he slipped on his hat and a pair of sunglasses, successfully shading his face from any unhappy colleagues and his bruised eye from any pretty girls. He caught up with Burke just as the man was getting into his car, an awful Taurus that screamed law enforcement, and slipped in the passenger seat. The FBI agent gave him a look but didn't order him out of the car, so Neal buckled up and hoped that eventually the older man would either ask or forget about whatever Gaddler had told him. A few minutes passed and Neal tried to enjoy the strains of _Pink Houses_ he could just make out from the speakers. But he wasn't the type to sit quietly and eventually ventured, "So where are we going?" The pause made him uncomfortable, but he had the feeling that his companion just hadn't heard him. "Agent Burke?"

"Huh?" The sandy haired man shook himself and then glanced over at him. "Oh. Sorry Reilly. I was… we're headed to Alex Hunter's apartment. There was no sign of the Velasquez on her person at the time of the accident. I want to know if she was storing it just in case the buyer turned on her." The man looked at him with crinkled eyes—no sunglasses for the FBI apparently.

Neal was vaguely disappointed. He had hoped that his first Fed would be a bit more Will Smith and less Tommy Lee Jones.

The man turned back to the road and once his eyes were no longer examining him, Neal made his request. "Call me Neal."

"What?"

"My name is Neal. Not… not Reilly. I prefer Neal." He leaned back in his seat and watched the city pan by in the window.

He loved New York. St. Louis had smothered him, had forced him into a position where there was no right way, no clear path. But New York… he admired a skyscrapers clean lines to heaven… in New York anything was possible so long as you knew where you were going.

It was a shame, really, that the City that Never Sleeps was less fond of him. He reached up a hand to brush the side of his bruised eye.

_Two days ago, the Bronx._

"_You should really go to the ER Neal. That looks bad." Julia George tossed a bag of peas at the detective's midsection. _

_Neal caught the makeshift icepack and carefully arranged it on his face. Sprawled shirtless on Julia's couch, he should have been the very image of seduction. But his friend ignored his firm torso and went about pouring her wine and opening a beer for her guest. "It's not too bad."_

_The woman snorted and tapped the cool bottle against his arm to get his attention. "Well it looks repulsive. What the hell did they hit you with? Their pool cue?"_

"_The triangle actually. It was a good shot- got my nose and my eye in one swing."_

"_That's what you get for hustling in this neighborhood. You're lucky that Rodrigo's son enjoys my class so much." She sipped her wine and wrinkled her nose as she lifted the peas to get a better look at his mauled face. "If he hadn't broken it up you'd be in the gutter amigo." She muttered to herself as she put away the first aid kit she kept in the kitchen. Despite her clear Irish features Julia's tongue rolled over the Spanish curses easily, and Neal wondered once more at her command of the language. _

_Rodrigo the bartender. Neal vaguely remembered someone threatening to call the cops and a strong arm hauling him out a cab. "I'll have to thank him next time."_

"_No." Julia's face lingered above him once more. "You are cut off Neal Reilly. No more _Paradiso_. The bouncers have been given express orders to ban you from the building." Neal frowned into his peas. _Paradiso_ had been convenient, only a few blocks from Julia's apartment, and he'd made easy money there. The small Latin crowd had always been happy to take money from the gringo, and had never made a fuss when it was them who were taken for a ride. Until today anyway._

_And he hadn't even cheated. Not the last game, anyway._

_But the accusation of double-dealing, on top of the verbal abuse he'd taken at the station today, had sent him over the edge and he'd opened his mouth and stuck his foot in it. Normally, Julia's presence buoyed the locals enough to keep fights to a minimum, but his friend had taught a late class and declined his invitation to go out. _

_He put the memory of the cruel words out of his mind and ran a hand over Julia's shoulder. She'd settled next to his head on the floor, absently sketching a still life of bloodied gauze and red wine. She ignored his hand and he took another pull from his beer, boldly slipping a finger under the strap of her tank top. "No Neal." She stopped his hand with a word and he sighed, leaning back against the couch and pulling the warming peas from his face. _

"_Why not?" he huffed out, ignoring his mother's voice in his head that complained he had no patience._

"_Because blood just doesn't do it for me. And you don't want to do this—you just want a distraction." Her pencil moved smoothly over the page, rendering blood stains. He closed his eyes. She was right, but it's not as if they haven't had sex before, not as if they hadn't stripped down and sketched each other both in public and private. "Besides, I need to finish this work of art. I think I may submit it to the MET." She held up the pad so he could see the whole picture. _

_He smiled as he saw the stick figure she'd tossed in at the bottom. Sprawled on a couch, realistic beer bottle towering over him, a thought bubbled displayed the man's inner thoughts in cheery bubble letters. 'I'm a fucking moron.'_

He smiled as he remembered Julia's grin as she stuck the paper to her fridge. The high school art teacher was his only friend in the city, at least, the only friend who knew his less than reputable past. Neal hadn't told her everything but she knew far more than most and she still stuck around.

And although he wasn't privy to every detail of her past he could tell she had her own secrets. Julia was doing penance every minute she taught at that shitty public school, every time she walked to the Catholic Church on her street and stood outside the side door until mass was over.

That was the real reason Neal loved New York: Everyone had their secrets.

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Alex had been keeping secrets.

Mozzie ran a finger over the small gold cherub, wondering what the small trinket belonged to; it was clearly a piece of a greater treasure, something not kept in the apartment or stolen yet. He slipped the small item into his bag—just in case.

Then he turned his attention back to the wall safe. Inside were photos of most of the New York fences, but what had really caught his eye was a small Polaroid of himself. How he had missed the woman taking it he didn't know, and but it made his eyes itch to wonder what other info the wily brunette may have had on him. "This is not good." The bald man tried to hold back the impulse to panic but was finding it rather difficult.

A buzzer went off and Mozzie jumped, clutching his bag to his chest. The buzzer sounded one more time and a voice spoke. "Hello? This is the FBI—we're entering the premises."

The Feds! What the hell had Alex been up to? Besides smuggling that is? Mozzie rushed to the small kitchen counter where he'd discarded a manila envelope in a fit of paranoid anger. He shoved the envelope into his bag and rooted around, finally pulling out his target. The gun made him feel better, its cold presence in his hand a reminder that while he looked crazy and unintimidating, he was actually crazy and extremely dangerous. "I just don't see why I can't pick the lock?" A voice pointed out calmly from behind the front door.

"Because that would be illegal….You know how to pick a lock?"

A pause and then an embarrassed tone. "Well… no. But I'm sure it can't be that hard."

"Let's just wait for the landlord—he'll be here in a minute." The frustrated voice sounded like it had a headache—the small man could sympathize. Yes suit. Mozzie thought. Wait for the landlord while I get the hell out of here.

Like every good thief, Alex had a backup exit and Mozzie crept to it now, opening the window and peering out of the fire escape warily. Fire escapes were notoriously dangerous—the government made them that way of purpose, to slowly pick off the lower class under the guise of fire drills. He glances back at the door. "Oh just let me try." The doorknob rattled and the man made his decision. Bag first, the thief crawled out onto the grated platform and hit the deck.

He could hear the door swing open and was mildly insulted that it took some kid Fed less time than a seasoned professional. "Told you I could do it." The voice crooned with victory. Mozzie edged towards the steps; trying to keep low enough they wouldn't see him over the pane.

"Yeah Re- Neal. You're a regular mastermind." Silence. Mozzie moved a little farther and reached the ladder. "Hell kid, I'm-"

"Why is the window open?" Mozzie froze; hand on the first rung and face upturned to the sky in panic. A full head of hair topping a too handsome face appeared from the window. "What the-" the face disappeared and Mozzie leapt to the next platform, pulling his own gun from his waistband just as a LEO issued glock poked down at him, hiding some of its owners face from view. "NYPD. Stop and lower your weapon! Now!"

NYPD? He thought they were Feds. Mozzie thought of the envelope. Fuck this. He was normally all for passive resistance, and if that failed passive acceptance, but there was no way NYPD Ken was going to bring him in. The thief acted out lowering his weapon but, at the last moment, swept himself off the grating and under it, then lowered himself as far as possible before letting himself fall the last two stories.

He could hear the officer above yelling but ignored him, making sure to make a scene of tossing the gun the moment he hit the pile of mattresses and homeless he'd been aiming for. The weapon had been seen, it was no good to him now, and even the dirtiest cop couldn't explain shooting an unarmed suspect in the back. The man was scrambling down the escape after him, but Mozzie was already running, heading for the closest exit from the alley.

And immediately started for the other direction when he saw a black SUV pull up and block it. He could feel rather than see the guns appear from the windows. There was a low fence blocking the other exit but he could clear it easily. He heard the NYPD man's shoes hit the ground behind him—he wasn't going to make it.

There was more scrabbling on the fire escape. His partner was heading down as well. "Freeze!" The pretty cop was still trying to arrest him. Mozzie shot a glance of confusion and annoyance at the kid.

Couldn't he see that his friends were trying to murder him?

Then the first bullets sped down the alley. Mozzie hurdled the fence clumsily, falling more than leaping, sure to toss his bag over first. When he fell, his face whipped towards his pursuers.

The young man stood there, gun at his side, face a mask of confusion. Above, the other man was still on the fire escape, firing a volley at the SUV, now tearing away from the scene. Mozzie locked eyes with the NYPD man, suddenly getting the feeling that he had gotten something terribly wrong. Then the kid started to lean, then to fall.

Then the thief saw the red blossoming from under the kid's suit jacket.

Then Mozzie ran.


	4. Chapter 4

I disclaim.

AN: Sorry this is a little later than anticipated, life got in the way of more pleasurable pursuits. To clear one thing up—Mozzie didn't shoot Neal. He got him shot, but he didn't do any actual shooting. I just wanted to note that because I think a few people got a little confused. It would totally ruin their bromance if one shot the other.

Chapter 4: Part 1

It didn't hurt as much as he thought it would, being shot. Neal stared up at the ugly, crumbling fire escape above him and then up, up, above the dirty building to the sky, which is annoyingly blue. All day the weather has been blue and clear and perfect, and he'd been glad earlier, because it made the light reflect off the buildings of glass and metal beautifully, but now he's lass than pleased because he doesn't want to die when it's sunny.

It's silly, one can't choose when they kick it, but Neal's always been a bit... dramatic. And it's more dramatic to die in the rain—in the movies it's always raining. Friends gather around the hero, who nobly bleeds to death, content in the knowledge that he will be remembered and that evil was vanquished.

But Neal's not a hero.

He doesn't have any friends either, besides Julia and McCay in Vice.

And McCay is his friend mostly because the man can't be bothered to actually expand any energy to actively hate him. But he's never turned Neal away from the barstool beside him, and once he even sought Neal out to sell him crappy cookies for his daughter's scout troop.

So Neal knows he's not really going to be remembered fondly, and he didn't even manage to stop the little guy who was breaking out of their victim/suspects apartment. That's zero for two. But he figured the least the world could do for him was a little drizzle. Maybe not a storm, but a smallish cloud or a broken sprinkler? Is that too much to ask?

But then a sandy had is above and then there's more shoot pain, pain that makes him buck up involuntarily and his head and the sky fill with red. The moment passes and the sky is blue again and Peter Burke, FBI, is above him, hand clamped on his arm. "You'll be fine kid." He's trying to be reassuring but his face is pale and worried. "It's through and through. The bastards just clipped your arm." He seems like he wants to say something else, maybe reassure or scold or just talk to pass the minutes until the ambulance comes, but his mouth closes a second later.

Neal's glad that he doesn't say anything. Words aren't worth much, not in the end. He knew that better than most—he was good at talking, learning about people and things. Hell, half of the property crimes beat was talking someone through their day so they could remember that they left this here, that at grandma's. But no matter how long he talks to someone about a piece of jewelry, they can never explain, not in a way that matter, why the bauble is so important. Even with the thieves, the pickpockets, the unintentional criminal… Why steal that? Why not this? Leave the money, take the painting, nab a doll but not a TV. It was never as black and white as it appeared in most cases and no extent of small talk or perfunctory answers would answer the riddles of the soul.

His father talked a lot.

It didn't seem to make him a better person. Only a more personable criminal. So Neal's quiet, because words don't fix anything, only lend false illusions.

Peter cuts away his jacket with a knife that the cop is positive isn't FBI issue, one hand still clenched around Neal's bicep. His face gets paler and he ties the sleeve as high up Neal's arm as he can manage in a way that tells Neal he's losing more blood than he should be. That the bullet maybe hit an important artery and he's going to be in big trouble if the ambulance doesn't show up soon. "You're okay. It's all going to be fine." Burke repeats himself and Neal feels a little better but then, "You can't die on me the first day kid—how am I going to explain that to your mother?"

And Neal stops listening.

He's pretty sure he blacked out on purpose, out of spite, but when he wakes up next the paramedic seems relieved. He's glad to be heading to the hospital, but happier to be rid of Burke. But no, the agent was still there, warm hand on Neal's ankle, smushed into the corner of the ambulance in a comical manner. It's clear he's trying to stay out of the emergency responder's way, but he's wedged himself in among some shelves and it's only highlighting the fact that despite his short stature, the man is by no means small.

He looks so concerned Neal almost feels bad. Almost.

But at the moment he's a little too concerned with the hole in his body.

Almost eight years on the police force, he's never been shot—it's not really as common as television makes it seem. And now he knows that those shows have got it all wrong. This is not a stoic, fight through the pain feeling. This is a, no moving until I'm unconscious or someone cuts off my arm pain. Even the thought of moving makes him sick and then he really is sick, vomiting into a bucket that the all-knowing paramedic thrust under his chin. He has to roll slightly so he doesn't choke and that sets off another wave of sick and then he passes out again.

Next time he's aware his mouth tastes extremely unpleasant and he's lying in low count thread sheets. His arm aches but he doesn't want to gnaw it off with his teeth, which is a definite improvement over the stabbing pain. "Finally awake sleeping beauty?" Julia voice is much more pleasant than Burke's and he's glad she's here instead. He opens his eyes to ice chips, which sooths the irritation of what was probably an intubation tube.

"How long have I been out?"

His friend shrugs, glasses slipping down her nose. "A few hours since surgery, but it's been almost six hours since you got yourself shot. I've managed to make three cootie catchers and fairly impressive origami zoo since Agent Burke called me down here." Julia looks fairly uncomfortable at the mention of his temporary partner's name. "He left, by the way. He needed to file a report or something."

Neal blushed. "Burke called you? Why?"

"What do you expect when you fill out the card in your wallet with my name and address?" She waved the expensive leather square as if presenting it to an invisible jury.

If possible, Neal felt himself turn redder. "That was mainly in case of alcohol related emergencies."

"Well you didn't specify." But despite his awkward presumption she doesn't seem too bothered, turning back to her small paper farm after verifying he could hold up his cup of ice chips with one hand.

"You're wearing a dress?" He states, after looking her over. It's not that unusual; Julia tends to dress nicely, in jackets and skirts and slacks. He doesn't think he's ever seen her in jeans, unless moving boxes were involved, but normally it's a soft sort of nice. Cotton dresses and slacks, usually with paint smears or charcoal stains in the pockets. This isn't a dress. It's a gown. Purple and silk and long, the sort of dress he wants to rub his hands over before taking it off a woman.

Julia smiles and dances a cat towards him. "I was going to the opera—I had to dress the part."

Great. Terrible enough he made her his emergency contact without permission but now he ruined her evening. "I'll pay you back for your ticket." He promises, but she waves him off.

"What makes you think I paid for my ticket?" She grins coyly and adds a flamingo to the feline resting on his chest. He smiles tiredly, glad she wasn't too inconvenienced and only slightly upset that she was going out with someone else. Julia wasn't a terrible beauty but she was attractive enough to be pursued by the rich fathers whose children had private classes with her. "Besides, I couldn't enjoy Chopin knowing you'd been bleeding all over Manhattan." He coughed, went for more ice chips, and was disappointed. He sent sad, puppy dog eyes to his friend. He laughed and grabbed the cup, shaking it. "Don't strain yourself with theatrics—I'll get them."

She left in a whirl of purple and he leaned back into the pillow and tried to move his arm. He did so easily and then moved each finger rapidly, pleased when every digit did as commanded. Satisfied that he wasn't suffering from nerve damage he closed his eyes and debated a nap until his companion returned with his snack. Drifting off Neal head the door open but couldn't find the energy to open his eyes, sure that Julia would flick an ice chip at him when she tired of waiting.

His chart rustled and a clammy hand rested on his forehead for a brief second. "Sorry Suit." It's a soft, male voice, definitely not Julia. Not Burke either. He opens his eyes, suddenly worried about who may be holding vigil besides him.

It's the little man from the alleyway, the thief who was running from him. "You!" He croaks out, scrambling to sit up. In his panic he forgets about his arm and uses it to push himself up. His vision goes black for a moment as even the strong painkillers can't fight the agony. He can feel himself falling, half out of the bed when surprisingly strong arms catch him and gently hoist him back onto the suddenly comfortable bedding.

"…should never have come." The little man is muttering to himself, glancing worriedly at the door. "Any minute now…" he looks back at Neal. "Ok there suit?" Neal doesn't reply, just stares at this funny man, dressed in a ridiculous doctors getup. The man seems to become more nervous under his gaze, fiddling with the large light strapped to his forehead. The pause goes on longer than Neal indented and the man edges neared, worry flooding his face. "Suit? Don't go to the light! You wouldn't like it there—people run free and fascist corporate oligarchies have been disbanded. Nurse!" He shouts to the closed door, but Neal grabs him halfway through the shout with his good arm and slaps a hand over his mouth.

"I'm fine. I'm fine—just, just confused." He pushed the man away before he becomes tangled in the flowery stethoscope he clearly stole from a nurse. "Why are you here? How are you here?" He glances out the half shaded glass walls to the uniformed police officer flirting with Julia at the nurses' station.

The small man took off his scrub hat and light and rubbed his bald head. "It occurred to me, Suit, that it may, unintentionally, been my fault that your trigger happy comrades in arms shot you. And as such, I just wanted to make sure you hadn't," he fluttered his hand in the air, "gone up to the big holding cell in the sky."

Neal frowned, confused, "What? Why would… what exactly were you stealing from that apartment?"

His visitor smirked. "Reclaiming actually. And unless you have a warrant, I'm afraid that's personal. And as to how I'm here… your guard seems more interested in your girlfriend and his crossword than your well-being. Off course, we don't know who he's really working for." He sent a suspicious glance at the hallway and then took on a contrite look once more. "I am sorry you got caught in the middle of this Baby Suit."

"Stop calling me that! And caught in the middle of what? Who exactly shot me?"

"Answers are not obtained by putting the wrong question and thereby begging the real one. Felix Frankfurter said that Neal Reilly. You'd like him—an interesting man, he walked the line of the American judicial system with a paranoid wisdom I respect."

Neal snarled in frustration. "What are you saying?"

The small man looked at him, disappointed. "You're not asking the right questions Suit." He pulled out a bag with a .40 caliber bullet. "You know who shot you—you just don't know why. Let me know when you have the right questions." He replaced the elements of his disguise that he'd shed minutes ago.

"I don't understand." Neal didn't watch him head for the door, eyes fixed on the small bullet now rolling in the sandwich bag. "Why give me this?"

"I need an honest man Suit. I checked you out—I figure you'll do."

Neal snorted, finally looking up. "You didn't do a very good job. Anyone on the force can tell you I'm no good."

The man smiled mysteriously. "I didn't say anything about a good man, Reilly. Let me know." He opened the door.

Neal panicked, for some reason worried he'd never see the thief again. "Wait? How can I get ahold of you? When I have my questions?"

"Put a white chalk x on the back of the bench underneath the 107th Memorial and I'll find you, Suit. Probably when you least expect it." And then he was gone, slipping out the door as silently as he came.

Neal leaned back into his pillows and lightly rubbed his arm. What the hell was going on? First thing tomorrow he was getting out of here and finding Burke—he had a feeling this was bigger than a single painting and a dead fence. And if Burke wouldn't answer his questions, maybe his mysterious thief would. He tipped the bullet from the bag and rolled the cool metal in his palm. He doubted he'd get any fingerprints from the thing, and there'd be no chain of evidence what with it being delivered in such and odd way. But Neal got the message. He did know who shot him—the strange, little man was right about that. Because he knew who used .40 caliber bullets; he loaded his own weapon with them every morning.

The NYPD.


	5. Chapter 5

I disclaim.

AN: This is going to start right after Neal is taken to the hospital, but is going to be from Peter's POV rather than Neal's. Also, instead of ER I'm going to be saying ED in this fic, because that's the proper term (emergency department)—I work in a hospital and it's going to throw me off if I don't write it like I think it!

As it was pointed out in a review, Mozzie is a little colder than he is in the original story. I did this purposefully, because I think that knowing Neal mellowed him a little, and gave him someone to actually care about other than himself, which really formed the Mozzie we know today.

Chapter 4- Part 2

Peter scrubbed the blood from his hands in the industrial hospital sink. The ED nurse had steered him into the private area after the doctor had informed him that his temporary partner would be alright. The FBI agent had known he would, but you never knew.

Peter had seen a small knife wound that sliced an artery, a good agent bleed out in five minutes.

He scrubbed harder.

He washed until his cuticles were pink with abrasions and then he checked himself over for blood stains. No real damage, apparently the kid was as fastidious a bleeder as he was a dresser. Peter knew, from working with Kent, that the kids suits were expensive. Not top of the line, and certainly not as classy as his boss', but more expensive than anything the FBI agent could afford on his salary. The agent filed that away in his mental rolodex of evidence.

Walking out of the room, he nodded at the nurse who'd been kind enough to let him behind the normally off-limits doors and headed towards the waiting room. "Agent Burke?" A voice interrupted him halfway. The nurse was waving a bag at him, the clear plastic jingling with what looked like personal things. "We have your partners things." As she placed the bag in his hands he could make out the sharpie scrawl at the top,

_Reilly, Neal- FBI_. "I thought you might want to hold onto them." With that, she headed away, charts in her hand, leaving Peter with a bag of lies.

Neal Reilly- FBI.

The nurses must not have looked at the kids badge, instead basing the kids identity on Peter's. The tow headed man shook his head, trying to shake off the feeling of guilt and something else he couldn't quite place. He walked over to the low table in the nearly deserted surgery waiting room and edged the man's things out of the bag. His clothes had been thrown away, useless and gory from dirt and blood but they'd saved the man's shoes, keys, badge, and wallet, as well as the stupid hat the kid had been sporting once they left the precinct. A faint clattering roused his attention and he poked through the meager belongings until he found the source. Inside the right shoe, someone had deposited a religious metal strung on a chain. Peter held it up. St. Michael. Patron saint of police officers. The metal hadn't done the young man any good today. Even so, Peter tucked it back into the shoe for safekeeping and moved on to the other items.

He ran his thumb over the raised design on the gold detectives badge, wondering why it was so important to the kid that he'd put up with all the crap he got from his fellow brothers-in-arms. Uncomfortable with the memory of the trash on the kids desk, as well as his own frosty reception of the kid, Peter put aside the sign of authority for the wallet, hoping to find some sort of contact card so he could call the kids parents.

Well... mother, at least.

Peter remembered the flinch and almost angry look on the boy's face when he'd mentioned Neal's mother. Maybe someone else then, there had to be someone he could call. The wallet was normal, although a little pricy for Peter's taste. Seventy dollars and a few credit cards, as well as an old St. Louis drivers license slipped behind his New York identification. A dollar folded to look like a sun was crammed in the change slot, along with an old photo. Folder in half, it must have been crumpled once upon a time, because it looked like it'd been through the ringer. A young family, man, woman, and baby, smiled for the camera, looking like something right out of a Sears catalog. He flipped it over, just making out the words, _The Reilly's 1980._ The FBI agent flipped over the picture once, more examining the man he now realized was Neal's father. He tried to see something of a villain in the man's features but could make out nothing but pride.

Feeling like he intruding on Reilly's life, he jammed the picture back where he found it and felt around the billfold once more. He was rewarded with a white card, slightly smaller than a credit card. It was one of those 'In Case of Emergency' cards that came standard with most wallets. Peter nearly grinned with relief when he saw that it was filled out. _Julia George. 212.555.4972._

'Julia'. Peter thought.' I hope you're not the fainting type.'

Julia wasn't, and twenty minutes later Peter was rewarded with a flurry of purple as his field of vision was overwhelmed with reddish-purple fabric. He looked up, standing when he saw dark hair framing a concerned, tight face. "Peter Burke?" The woman inquired. "The nurses said you were Burke." She seemed cautious, not offering her hand.

"Yes, Hello. You must be Miss George. I'm FBI Agent Peter Burke." He looked over her elegant outfit, "I hope I didn't interrupt your evening."

"I'm hardly concerned about my evening Agent- you called me about Neal- what's happened?" She seemed nervous and worried, her face lined with stress. He stood and guided her down, trying not to be offended as she flinched at his touch.

"You may want to sit down, Miss-"

Julia George closed her eyes and briefly covered her mouth with a white gloved hand. "Oh god. Neal's- he's," She sank into the uncomfortable plastic chair.

For a moment, Peter considered how ridiculous she looked there, seated in the awful utilitarian chair in what was clearly a dress that cost more than his monthly salary. Then it stuck him, what she must think, and found her eyes locked on a red stain on his knee. He must have missed it. He'd been kneeling in a puddle of Reilly's blood. "No! No, Miss George. Reilly- Neal- he's alive. The doctors took him into surgery, they said he'd be fine. I'm afraid that I haven't handled this that well-"

"No I would say you haven't." The woman pulled her hand away from her mouth and Peter noticed her lipstick had stained the fingertips. "What's happened then?" Despite being clearly upset, Neal's girlfriend met his eyes and spoke clearly, both eager and yet unwilling to hear the news.

A cop's wife, Peter acknowledged with some respect. It took a special kind of person to be able to send their lovers and friends to work knowing each day may be last you wave goodbye.

"Neal was shot about two hours ago pursing a suspect. The bullet didn't do a lot of damage, but it hit an artery in his arm. He's lost a lot of blood Miss George, but the doctors are doing everything that they can." The woman closed her eyes, sinking into the chair. Peter wasn't sure, but he could swear that she seemed a little smaller than she had a moment ago.

"But he's... he's okay?" Her eyes fixed on him with an intensity Peter rarely saw outside an interrogation room.

"Yes Ma'am. He's okay." In fact, Peter wasn't sure the young man would be okay, but he couldn't bring himself to admit anything else to the slight woman beside him.

Julia George nodded and reached out for the bag of Neal's things that sat discarded on the table. She clutched the belongs to her chest but said nothing more, simply sat there holding onto the man's things as if they were the cop himself. Despite the fact that Peter had paperwork to fill out and superiors to answer to, he too, didn't move, instead staring at an ugly reproduction of a Van Gogh hanging on the wall. No one from Neal's precinct had showed up to support him, despite the fact that Peter knew the call had gone out on the radio.

He'd stay until he knew the kid was alright.

It was another hour until Neal came out of surgery and a tired looking doctor informed the waiting party of two that the police officer would be alright. George practically sagged in relief and was promptly shown her boyfriends room, but Peter waited until the two had left before sinking into his chair and pulling his head down between his knees.

It had been a while since he'd felt a coworkers blood on his hands. Been a while since he'd had to fight the pure panic of not being able to _do_ anything.

Standing on that fire escape, he'd seen the small thief turn on a dime and head back towards the property crimes detective, he'd seen the confusion on Neal's face. What he hadn't seen, not until it was too late, was the black van full of guns. Full of guns with bullets, one of which had hit a man he'd been partnered with for less than five hours.

Less than five hours, but he already felt responsible for the quiet, seemingly lost young man.

Peter sat up, waving off the nurse who'd wandered over to check that he was okay. He needed to get to the office. He needed to sort this all out.

Who would be after the man on the fire escape? Who would know that the three of them would be there, at the same moment? Was it coincidence? Or was Reilly caught up in something that he shouldn't be?

He remembered the older police officers vague warning from earlier.

Was Reilly caught up in something?

Or was he?


	6. Chapter 6

I disclaim.

AN: So I wanted to clear something up, because it was mentioned in a review and I realized that I never noted anything! Neal Reilly= Neal Caffrey! Lol. So I had Neal have a different last name because I figured that Caffrey wasn't his real last name. Even though it seems like Neal hates his father (although I don't really think he does), it seems to me that he wouldn't want to use his name when committing crimes—he wants to separate himself from the man even as he emulates him. In this fic, Neal is still trying to be like the man he imagines his father is/could have been, and so would keep his father's name. So... yea.

Chapter 5

Sean Reilly had been a dirty cop. As Peter scrolled through his many offences, he considered his own wife, his own career, and added a child; Sean Reilly had been a dirty cop, but he'd been an even worse father.

He thought of Neal, pale and quiet against the sheets in his hospital room. He couldn't imagine leaving Elizabeth alone to deal with his mistakes and raise a child. Maybe it was better that he couldn't—maybe that made him a better man.

Maybe.

He watched as the screen ticked through Sean's many offences, settling on the final charge, the last one added to the file before the man died. Twenty six years ago Sean Reilly shot an unarmed man from his unmarked car, killing the snitch who was on his way to rat the dirty cop out to IA. What Reilly hadn't realized was that a patrolman was getting dinner at a dive across town and got the cars plates as the man peeled away.

Reilly was finished the moment he pulled the trigger, but the situation wouldn't have turned to shit if his partner hadn't been across town bleeding to death at a stakeout gone bad. A stakeout that Reilly should have been participating in. Yannick Samson died and the whole department was after Reilly's blood; except for Sean's old partner, a Margaret Thomas who'd gone into Witness Protection three days earlier. The file didn't say—WITSAC was pretty closed lipped about these things—but Peter would bet his badge that she'd rolled over on Reilly long before the snitch was a threat.

A damn shame.

Neal's father disappeared before trial and after ten years, Peg Reilly had her husband declared dead. But not before mortgaging her house for his bail and spending thousands on private investigators looking for him. The file didn't elaborate on what happened to the family after Sean jumped bail, but Peter could imagine. They'd have lost the house and he assumed Peg had been forced to get a job—something that would have been hard for a high school educated house wife.

It would have been a bitter realization for the family. A hard life to be thrust into because your husband made a terrible decision.

Peter shook his head and pulled up Neal's file, pleasantly surprised by the commendations and notes in it. It seemed that the young man was better at hiding his talents than he would have expected. Sighing, he clicked away from the file, feeling guilty for invading Neal's history without talking to the boy first. He'd made an assumption and practically ignored the kid for the majority of their time together until he'd almost been killed.

He picked up the phone, dialing a number that Jones had carefully typed out and taped to his computer screen. "Sara? It's Peter."

"Peter." He could just hear the slender woman swiveling in his chair. "I heard that your new partner got himself shot. He okay?"

Peter shook the image of blood stained hands from his head. "He's fine- a little shook up. And how did you know about that?"

Sara chuckled over the line. "Don't ask questions you don't want answered G-Man. Now what can I help you with?"

"Have you heard anything about the painting? From the... types of people I don't want to know about?"

"I heard that it's changing hands. Nothing on the black market though- whoever stole this thing isn't looking to sell it, only move it. I can't tell if this guy is simply narcissistic enough to steal for the thrill of it or if he's a gun for hire who's laying low but I'd bet he's not in it for the money."

"Why steal a painting that's already been stolen?" Peter asked. They'd had a beat on the original thief, but had pushed it to the back burner when Alex Hunter was murdered.

Sara sighed, sounding tired. "I don't know."

After a few more words they hung up. Peter sighed leaning back in his chair and gazing around the darkened office. He was getting sick of not knowing. Above him Kent was pacing his office and talking on the phone, probably defending their (Peter's) lack of progress to the Chief. Peter hated not having answers, but more importantly, not having them might just get him fired.

_WC_

Julia frowned as Neal pulled himself into a cab. "I don't think that this is a good idea, Neal."

"I can't stay in that hospital any longer Jules. Every pudding cup was halving my retirement. Besides, if Burke left it means that he went back to work- I'm not going to let him push me off this case."

"You were just shot." Her words had little influence on Neal, who dragged his overnight bag into the cab's floor. "I don't like this. I think you should drop it- Burke's dangerous."

The tall man paused, door halfway closed. "What do you mean? He's a cop, a Fed even."

His friend flushed. "Look at you! Ten minutes with the man and you've been shot- You've been a police officer for almost ten years and you've barley pulled your gun, now this case... Ask to be taken off it Neal. Please."

"I can't Julia. This is my shot- if I can impress Burke maybe he can talk to someone, get me reassigned. It's time to move on, one way or another." He slammed the door, or tried to, leaving her on the sidewalk, billowing purple swirling at her feet.

She stared after the cab, lips pursed unhappily. The orderly pushing the wheelchair held out her purse, getting her attention. "Ma'am." She took the small bag with a half smile, using her other arm to flag a cab of her own. Slipping inside, she leaned her forehead on the cool glass, directing the driver to her apartment. After a few minutes Julia slipped her phone out her purse, hesitating fingers caressing the buttons. Finally, the car stopped outside of her place and she stepped out, over tipping the driver in her haste and gathering her courage, dialing a number she'd purposefully put out of her mind for years. "How did you get this number?"

"It's me. We need to talk. Neal's going to Burke." The line broke off and she stared down at device, wondering if she'd made the right decision. But things were starting- she'd made her choice. It was time to face up to her old ones. As the cab pulled away she tossed her cell under the back tire, making sure the rubber crushed the phone.

It wouldn't do to be careless.


	7. Chapter 7

I disclaim. An longer chapter to make up for the shortie earlier! Also this is Julia heavy but dont worry- the boys are coming up next!

Chapter 6

Mozzie rustled his paper in agitation as the brunette teacher angrily threw herself down on the bench behind him. "You walk past twice and then sit down!" He hissed, upset that she failed to follow protocol.

"Give me a break Mozzie." Julia George set her paper coffee cup at her feet, the signal that she hadn't been followed. "Who walks past a bench that many times, then sits down?" She pulled out a book and pretended to read.

"Plenty of people walk past benches every day." The small man defended himself and they fell silent a moment, each lost in their own thoughts regarding the situation at hand. "Sorry about your boyfriend." Mozzie offered, still feeling somewhat responsible that the kid had been shot.

Julia sighed, closing her eyes. "He's not my boyfriend. But he shouldn't have been anywhere near that apartment. And you should never have come to the hospital. What were you thinking? Involving Neal—he's working with Burke—you don't think he'll report everything to the Suit the minute he catches up with him?" Now it was Julia who was angry, a hint of an Irish brogue slurring her words.

"Oh I think the kid's more interested in the mystery than in Peter Burke's approval."

"Neal is a good person Mozzie—he's not the type to get dragged into this sort of thing."

Mozzie turned a page violently. "Oh I think there's a little more to your little friend than there appears to be O'Brien." He shot a glance over his shoulder. "You might not know him as well as you think. Did he tell you about my little visit?" Julia stiffened. Neal hadn't said anything about the conman, but Julia had seen him disappear down the hall, seen the look in Neal's eyes, the bullet clutched in his hand. It hadn't been hard to put two and two together, even easier remember the number she'd once memorized. "And don't talk to me about risk little girl. I wasn't the one flaunting in front of a federal agent—why didn't you just paint Burke a picture of your wanted poster? I'm sure Interpol would just love to have an updated photo."

Julia whipped around, unconcerned with security in her rage. "And what should I have done? Left him by himself after you got him shot!" She kicked her cup, black coffee staining her shoes and the cracked sidewalk. " Fuck you! I was out—why couldn't you have just left me alone?" She took deep breath and stood, mechanically moving to pick up the trash and toss it in to the garage before sitting back down.

For once, the balding con looked suitably abashed. "I didn't know it would got his far. If I'd known Burke was sniffing around…" He trailed off. "I'll give the Suit credit—he's good. I didn't even know he was having Alex followed. Me, not noticing a tail—I'd be impressed if he wasn't trying to put the metal bracelets on me."

"Alex." Julia puffed out a derisive sound. "She knew better."

"She took risks." Mozzie wasn't quite ready to speak ill of the dead, superstitions getting the better of him.

"She was reckless. Her obsessions finally got the best of her." The teacher's dark eyes clouded, lost in memories of old battles. "She cared too much. She made it personal." Mozzie inclined his head, accepting the point; it was part of the reason that he wanted nothing to do with the job from the beginning. Alex had wanted it to much. He also knew that of all his younger colleagues, Julia George knew a great deal about obsessions—about the hasty danger they created.

Julia was part of his old life, never discussed, a tie to Detroit that he preferred not to think about. The Dentist was gone, leaving Mozzie behind, and the girl behind him was a uncomfortable reminder of his sins. Her father had been a fanatic, an IRA man who fled Ireland with his young daughter to Boston, helping other's escape MI5's keen eye when needed. But then Detroit had called, and Tommy O'Brien enforced for the Irish mob. He was good it, enjoyed it a little too much, and even Mozzie, who admittedly hadn't exactly been upset when a little blood was spilled, had been a little afraid of him. Mozzie had mostly worked for the Russians and the Czechs, but he wasn't picky so long as the money was good and during the construction boom the money was good with the Irish. He'd even been invited for dinner a few times, and had always awkwardly greeted the small girl along with whatever woman O'Brien was sleeping with that week.  
Say what you will about the man, he'd loved his daughter and took prestigious care of her. The women never stayed because it was clear that O'Brien had just enough room in his heart for one woman—Julia. He sent her to the best art schools, paid for private tutors; but even Julia hadn't stopped his dangerous tendencies and he was like a junkie; he needed the hit of danger and explosives and chaos.

He made it personal.

He went back to Ireland, took her with him, and got them both blown up in a car bombing two months later. Julia lived. Tommy hadn't been so lucky.  
Julia adapted, as she always had, to the situation her father thrust on her. She'd used the art skills he'd encourage to forge currency and euros for the IRA, eventually trying her hand at paintings. Word got out and she slipped away from the Northern Ireland, freelancing, earning enough to travel and study but her heart was never quite in it. Which was a shame because she was good; one of the best Mozzie had ever worked with.

He hadn't been surprised when she'd disappeared.

It had been pure luck he'd spotted her in New York, a lucky catch that he'd needed someone to authenticate a Spanish painting. She'd always had a talent for religious art. Asking her to check the Velazquez before he'd stolen it had been risky, but he trusted Alex as far as he could throw her, and considering his physical fitness that wasn't far. So he'd called in a marker with Julia and she'd looked over the piece the night before, authenticating the table arrangement on the canvas in exchange for him losing her number.

And then everything had gone to shit.

And now she was beside him, still a girl, and he felt like a terrible person, blowing up her world once more.

"Did you tell anyone? About the painting?" He had to ask.

"Of course not." Julia muttered. "I didn't even go the party under my real name. If someone found out about this it wasn't from me."

Mozzie rubbed his head and adjusted his glasses. "Well I didn't tell anyone. And Alex wouldn't have risked a payoff that large."

"How large?" Julia questioned sharply.

"Fifty million. I got thirty, she took twenty and her contact got the painting and the other ten." It had sounded too good to be true but he'd been tempted by the money, which would fund his private island for at least a few years. Julia scoffed. "What?" He turned, abandoning all attempt at deception.

She turned to face him as well. "That's bullshit. One of the most expensive Valazquez's in the world is estimated at eighty to a hundred million, Prince Baltasar Carlos on Horseback. It's a masterpiece; the piece you had me examine was a fifth graders art project in comparison. It was from early in his career and I'd estimate worth about two million in a legitimate auction. But even the Baltasar is questionable—it may not even be authentic. The most expensive Velazquez is Juan de Pareja, which the Met bought for five and half mil, which in the seventies was the highest price ever paid for a painting at auction. There is no way on god's green earth that that painting was worth that much at a Christie's, let alone on the market." Mozzie's paper had been discarded now, his fist clenched as he took in what his old friend was saying. "So either Alex was full of shit, or she was moving something else and not telling you about it."

"Alex wouldn't do that."

"Then someone was playing her." The ex-forger glanced around before standing, smoothing her skirt with shaking hands. "Playing all of us. I'll call you, if I hear anything. But Mozzie… don't call me again." She hurried away, disappearing into the quickly cooling night.

Mozzie sat a little longer, nervously watching the shadows close in on him. Under his shirt he could feel the hard metal of his gun digging into his hip—it wasn't as comforting as it had been this morning and he wished for the calm walls of Tuesday.

When the sun slipped behind the gleaming skyscraper and the park fell into darkness he finally stood, a dark smear amongst the twilight, moving quickly into the safe light of the street.

********************************WC********************************

"Is our little problem taken care of?" The boardroom was mostly empty, just two men facing off, both unhappy to be there. Somewhere on the floor a vacuum was turned on, the calming purr of the machine faint through the glass walls. A light clicked on a few offices away and the young man's eyes quickly cut away, glancing over suspiciously. A secretary bustled around, files deposited her and there. "It's just Janice." The older man answered the unspoken question and leaned forward eagerly. "So, is it done?"

The younger man tilted his head and reached up to check his tie. "Not exactly. My men missed the thief—they, ugh, hit a police man instead. A detective." He pushed a file across the table.

"Well what the hell was a cop doing at the apartment?"

"He was with a federal agent. Burke." Another file. The older man glared and the speaker rolled his eyes at the man's insistence that they not use names. "Anyway, the agent apparently knew fence was up to something, had her followed."

This was not good news. The files swished as they were thrown down the table. "And you didn't know this? How could you miss it? Our patsy has a goddam tail and we don't find out until after it's gone down?"

The finely dressed young man knit his eyebrows together, trying not to laugh at the ridiculous use of slang. "The operation was barely above board. It's nothing to worry about. What we to focus on, is finding the thief and taking him out." This time there was only a photo, grainy and almost worthless. "Once he's out of the picture we'll deal with the cops. For good, if necessary."

Reviews= rainbows!


	8. Chapter 8

I disclaim.

Chapter

"Honey do you want dessert?" His wife's voice dragged Peter from his thoughts, startling him into dropping the coffee spoon he'd been toying with.

"Yeah, thanks El." He smiled as his beautiful other half slide a piece of cherry pie in front of him. The pie was almost as gorgeous as the woman who sat across from him. "I'm sorry honey- I feel like I've been a thousand miles away. How was your day?" Peter tried to summon an excited tone, guilt washing over him as he realized that they'd eaten in almost complete silence.

El quirked her lips in an almost smile. "It's alright Peter. I understand- I'm just glad you're home tonight. I missed you the other night." She looked away twirling her fork in her own slice. "Work was...exhausting. Mary makes us do... let's just say if I was running things we could do twice the work for half the effort." She took a halfhearted bite, looking down at the binder of work beside her. The FBI agent could feel her disappointment from across the small dining room table. He'd promised her things would be different as soon as he got a promotion, got a raise, had some free time. He sighed, turning his own eyes to the case file beside his own plate. Yes, things would be different as soon as his life changed- although lately it seemed that he was standing in place, stuck in a situation outside of his control.

He would feel his life, his wife, slipping away from him.

"I'm sorry." El looked up at him. "I'm sorry that you still have to work at that job- as soon as-"

"Don't Peter." El stood, clearing her plate. "I know Peter. It's not your fault. I married you, knowing everything. Knowing what our life might be like. We're a team. I'm not going to ask you to do more than your share. I like working, even if it means working for someone else. One day I'll be my own boss... I just have to wait." She leaned down to kiss the top of his head before slinking off to their small kitchen.

Peter looked down at his own pristine plate, pie untouched. It was the same conversation they always had... but lately it seemed a little forced, El's words a little more forced, her expression just a little more unhappy. He cut into his own piece, watching blandly as cherry juice split across the white plate, the thick syrup running slowly. He put down the fork, stomach turning as he thought of Neal's blood, running down his hands and onto the dirty street. How was the boy doing? Hopefully not giving the hospital staff too much trouble.

His wife sat down again, her blue eyes turned away from his. "Maybe, maybe we could take a vacation? Just the two of us? Somewhere warm?" He asked suddenly, grinning as her eyes lit up and met his for the first time all night.

"That would be... that would be great honey. I-" The doorbell rang, interrupting her response. Peter growled under his breath as she smiled apologetically at him and stood to answer the door. He raise a bite of pie to his lips, trying not to recall the smell of coppery blood and gunpowder. "Peter?" El's uncertain, urgent voice distracted him once again and again he dropped the fork, moving quickly to the apartment door, grabbing his gun as he passed through the living room.

Son of a bitch.

Neal Reilly stood, drooped really, outside his door, a good grip on the doorframe all that was stopping him from falling over. The young man was pale but smiling, that handsome, charming grin that he'd momentarily flashed in the car. "Burke. Sorry about this, but I really needed to-" the sentence dropped off as he lost his footing and had to grab the wall with his other arm, his bad arm, to stop from falling. What color in his face disappeared as he moved his injured shoulder and Peter moved just in time, catching him right before he hit the ground.

"Peter?" El stood uncertainly, looking from their unexpected guest to the gun awkwardly held in Peter's hand.

"I'm sorry honey. It's... this is Neal." He hefted the unconscious man slightly, getting a better grip so he could drag the tall man into the room and deposit him on the couch. "He's... he's a cop. NYPD detective. We were working a case together."

"Were?"

"Well are... technically."

The party planner looked at the young man skeptically. "What happened to him?"

Peter hesitated. "He was shot." El paled. "But he's fine. It was just a little nick. He probably just has been eating right- he was in the hospital and-" But his wife was gone the moment he said eating, a determined look on her face as she strode into the kitchen. His wife's need to nurture was well known in many circles. Peter looked down at the oblivious guest. "I really need to get her a dog." He pushed some dark hair from the boy's face, which looked even younger without the ridiculous product that had been holding it up. Dressed in scrubs and still wearing a hospital bracelet, Peter would bet money the kid had signed himself out AMA and had headed straight here. "Neal?" He gently shook the detective's good shoulder. "Neal? Come on, wake up- how're you supposed to eat my leftovers if you sleep the night away?" The talk of food seemed to draw in the too thin man, who blearily opened his eyes and winced, his hand moving to his bad shoulder as if to reassure himself it was still there.

"Burke?"

The agent stood from his crouched position and stood, hands moving to his hips. "Good, you're awake. Now you can tell me what you're doing here?" He's less than impressed with the evening's interruption and even less thrilled that the kid had clearly broken out of the hospital. "Does that girl of yours know that you've disappeared?" He can imagine the kid sneaking out without telling his girlfriend, and could only imagine her panic.

"Leave him alone Peter." El breaks in, a plate piled high with Peter's lunch in one hand and a glass of water in the other. "He needs to catch his breath." She smiles kindly as she deposits her gifts on the table before their guest. "Hi, I'm El, Peter's wife."

Neal ducks his head before grinning up at her, they type of grin that, had Peter not been seriously concerned for kid, would have warranted a good punch to the face. (No one hit on Peter Burke's wife.) "Neal. Detective Neal Reilly. Nice to meet you. Sorry about the..." He gestured at the door.

El sat beside the kid, nudging the food closer to him. "It's fine. I was just a little startled is all. It's not every day I have handsome men falling at my feet." Now Peter's really annoyed but he knows better than to interrupt his wife so he stalked to the kitchen for a beer, planning to drink moodily as he stares down his guest.

"Delicious, El, really." Quiet Neal doesn't seem so quiet with his wife and Peter debates breaking the bottle of the kid's head and adding a concussion to the gunshot. But the cop's eyes left El's as soon as Peter entered the pleading blue seeming to ask the FBI agent for something.

"I'll just leave you two alone. I have a little work to do." El stands with a smile at Neal and a kiss for Peter, whispering in his ear. "I like this one. Go easy on him honey." And then the amazing woman is gone and Peter's left with Reilly, who seems to be positively inhaling the chicken casserole in front of him.

Peter rolled his bottle between his palms and then sat, eyeing his temporary partner. "Doesn't your girlfriend feed you?"

Neal looked up, eyebrow raised. "She's not my girlfriend." He offered nothing more, fixed expression daring Burke to comment on his life. "Besides I just got out of the hospital—do you know what they feed you there? Jello. No one likes jello Burke. I don't care what Bill Cosby says."

"Never trust a man in a sweater vest."

The kid grinned at him. "Exactly." After a few more bites the kid put down the fork, carefully wiping his mouth and rotating his bad shoulder with a wince. "What do you know about Alex Hunter?"

Peter sank back into the plush cushions of his chair. "Why do you want to know?"

Neal faked casualness. "Oh well, you know, being shot at outside her apartment raised by curiosity a bit—of course," he fished something out his pocket and tossed it beside his plate, "being shot at with NYPD rounds made me even more inquisitive." He was watching Peter carefully.

But he didn't need to worry, as Burke's face was as surprised as his own. "This…" the Fed grabbed the ruined bullet and examined it himself. "This… could be from any gun—I mean-"

Neal cut him off. "You and I both know that gangs prefer automatics with a higher caliber, and there's no way that it's a coincidence that a drive by happened just as that thief was running."

Peter conceded the point with a tilt of his head, still examining the metal. "And you're sure that uh, they weren't aiming at someone else?"

"Me you mean?" The young detective face was tight with agitation. "Yes Burke, I'm fairly certain I haven't pissed off any of my many criminal contacts." Even someone who hadn't been trained in FBI interrogation could have picked up on the bitterness in the statement and Peter let it drop, although the poetic justice of Neal being gunned down the same way his father had killed his snitch wasn't lost on him. His face must have shown his disbelief because the kid stood on shaky legs. "Fuck this. I was trying to be honest, but you're just like the rest. I'm a good cop—and I don't need this." A hand slipped through thick hair. "My father was a terrible excuse for a human being—he was a criminal who used his badge to work the system. He walked out on my mom and he killed a man for… for nothing.

"But he was my dad. He was dad and he wasn't—he didn't hit me, he always remembered my birthday, and until I was 18 years old he was my hero. He was a good dad, until he wasn't. And you can laugh at me, and talk behind my back and put rotting food on my desk just like the rest of them but you know what—I'm a good cop in spite of him and in spite of everyone like you." Neal snatched the bullet up, his face going pale at the sudden exertion. I spent my entire career trying to not become my father, but you know what? I'm not too sure I want to be like you either." And then he stormed towards the door, his exit somewhat hampered by the fact that he staggered alarmingly into the doorframe.

Peter just watched, pale and silent too shocked to do anything. He stared at the now closed door until El's sharp voice made him jump (she was an alarmingly quiet walker). "Peter Burke!" She stared at him, eyebrow raised, dishrag threatening.

He stood, just catching the keys she flung at his head. "I'm going." He jogged toward the door. "I just hope the kid hasn't wandered out into the street." El would never let him back in the house if something happened.

AN: So Neal tried to tell Peter the truth and got burned. But don't worry! Our duo will be back in action and best buds soon!


	9. Chapter 9

AN: I'm awful and haven't posted! But I just moved and have been a little stressed so forgive me! Although the good news is my total lack of friends and social life here mean I'll be posting much more often! :)

It was noted that El isn't the type of person to be upset that she's not well off or that Peter isn't successful. I completely agree. And the El in this story doesn't care either- but Peter does and so that's how he perceives her actions. This will change as the story goes on, but Peter is so concerned with what he hasn't done he's not paying attention to what he has. So don't be fooled by materialistic El! She's just a figment of Peter's imagination!

Chapter 8

He finally found the kid in a cheap diner, halfheartedly picking at what looked like a substandard piece of cherry pie. Peter tossed his keys on the table and slid into the booth, putting both hands on the cheap plastic, aware that the kid wouldn't take well to any signs of aggression.

Neal passive-aggressively stabbed his pie, squirting cherry juice onto his rumpled shirt. Peter turned his head from the red mess to ask for a coffee from the weary waitress. "Right then." She set down a cup and poured. She was English, young and tired, and Peter was reminded instantly of his mother. Mary Burke had come to America only to be abandoned by the man who'd convinced her come and she worked hard every day of her life. She was never bitter though- she was a strong person who didn't put up with self-pity or complaining. The FBI agent turned back to the kid, mentally already determined to leave the woman a large tip.

"What do you want?" Neal scrapped his fork against the cheap petulantly and Peter winced as the metal whined. Normally he'd snatch the fork but he didn't want to give the kid another reason to run. "I'm sorry. For whatever it is I did." It was the cowards way out- he knew it was his assumptions about Neal that had hurt the boy but he was hoping they could be men and avoid the subject directly. He needed Neal to forgive him or he'd be sleeping on the couch for a week at least.

His wish was granted as Reilly pushed his pie around. "I'm not dirty." The kid was looking anywhere but at him and so Peter looked down into his black coffee, secretly, ashamedly, pleased he didn't have to look into the younger cop's wounded eyes.

"I know. I know that. What I meant... it wasn't about you. Well... not really. You know how you father killed that man?" A small nod and blue eyes far away. "It would be meaningful.. in a way, if someone took you out the same way."

Neal met his eyes again. "If someone wanted to kill me they would have done it in St. Louis. I walked a beat there for almost five years. And believe I got shit, but I was never threatened, not that way."

Peter thought of the garbage and decided that he and Neal had very different ideas about threatened. "Alright then. I believe you." Neal perceptively brightened and Peter felt even worse than he had when Neal had stormed out. "So who would want to kill our thief? The fence is dead and the gallery that it was stolen from doesn't have the resources to put a hit out on someone, let alone a hit orchestrated by NYPD." He took a long gulp of coffee, suddenly sure he wouldn't be getting any sleep. "Maybe the buyer?"

"But would the buyer kill two people? I mean, they were thieves- if they'd been paid then it wouldn't matter. It's not as if they could go to the police and confess to stealing?" Neal pushed the disgusting pie away. He ran a hand through his hair. Peter absently noticed it was the first time he hadn't seen the locks perfectly coifed.

"Sometimes people just kill other people." The FBI agent sighed. It had been the hardest lesson of career and he wasn't looking forward to being the one teaching it. "Sometimes it's just easier than paying or working or... or a thousand things. Sometimes it's just easier."

"Easier isn't right." Reilly said it with such conviction that Peter hated to ruin the man's ideals. "I mean... if everyone did something because it was easier the world would fall apart. And this... it doesn't make sense. Whoever tried to kill that thief, killed Alex Hunter, they didn't do it because it was easier. Easier would be paying them. Or even just shooting them at the meet. I mean, this guy had NYPD doing a drive by. He was sending a message."

Burke nodded, agreeing. "But a message to who? The thief? Or us?" The light haired man threw a twenty down on the table. and grabbed Neal's elbow, helping the tired, injured man from his seat. "And who the hell knew we were there?"

***********************************WC***********************************

Julia locked her door firmly behind her, paying special attention to the deadbolt. Westchester Square wasn't a dangerous area, was safer than most, but she had a feeling. Ever since Mozzie had called her she'd been on edge.

Perhaps it was time to move on. Lately it had felt too much like Ireland, too much like barber wire and blood and tension in her hands and head. She sorted through the various goods in her arms. Mail and groceries and various school supplies wobbled as she juggled just inside her door.

The package was small, hand-delivered by a Fed-Ex driver to her neighbor, who'd been kind enough to give it her when she'd returned home from her art class. The yellow envelope was heavy- probably the book she'd ordered from Amazon-and so the woman left it in the short hallway instead of carrying it into the living room where she normally dropped mail.

It slammed onto the old wood table. And it ticked.

***********************************WC***********************************

Mozzie paced the floor of Tuesday, his zen sanctuary not working his magic as he worried about the Suit and the baby Suit and Julia and the painting.

How could things have gone so wrong? How could Alex have been so stupid?

Galeria de Santo Azul. The Blue Saint Gallery.

He'd only just got the background check on it. It was a front, the whole thing. None of it had been real. Not the painting, not the payoff- it was all a ruse for Alex to fall into, all an elaborate game in which he'd made all of them players.

All of them...

By the time the first footsteps were on the stairs he was out the door, bag and two envelopes with him. By the time Tuesday burned down he was across town, gun in his hand and the Dentist in his heart.

***********************************WC***********************************

Kent straightened his tie before entering the building. With these sort of men it was best to look his best, to be poised and in control. Everything was in place.

Now he just needed to deliver the message.

Honestly he felt bad about that kid detective. It was a shame he'd been shot, and a damn shame that Burke had to clean the kids blood off his cheap suit. But Kent hadn't gotten his promotion because he felt bad- he'd risen because he was ambitious and knew how to play the game. Peter just didn't understand. The FBI supervisory agent nodded at the suited man who got into the elevator with him, his mind on other things.

No, you didn't get ahead in this world by being nice and playing by the rules. The world was for winners, and Colin Kent planned on winning as much as possible. Running over Alex Hunter in that car had been a bit more... difficult... than he'd imagined, but in the end he'd gotten away with it.

And in a few short hours all the loose ends would be... tidied up. He checked his reflection one last time in the stainless elevator doors.

Kent was so focused on his reflection he didn't see the gun until it was too late.

***********************************WC***********************************

El should have known that Peter would be late. Expected it, after he'd run out after the young cop hours ago. She'd liked Neal, enjoyed the soft refinement in him that he seemed to be hiding under layers of 'cop'.

Peter needed to fix what he'd broken in the young man eyes and then he needed to come back home and hold her to him.

But he didn't need to forget his keys.

She grumbled as she dragged herself to the door, muttering about forgetful husbands and pinning notes to jackets and hiding keys. Opening the door she was ready to give the wonderful, yet incredibly absent man a piece of her mind.

And stopped as the gun came up.

***********************************WC***********************************

And world stopped moving.

And then it exploded.

END OF PART ONE

_Coming soon in Part 2:_

_"I told you baby Suit- you have to ask the right questions. Now you have the question... are you sure you can handle the question?"_

_"He shot my wife. Killed her. And for what? A pretty painting? A golden crown?"_

_"I'm not my father." "Are you sure? Because the way you point that gun? You look pretty damn similar."_

_"There are always thieves Agent Burke. But the thieves aren't always the criminals you make them out to be."_

AN: I decided to split this into two separate parts. It'll still be filed under the same story but the way it worked out I need a slightly larger break than just a new chapter. Part Two will start two months after the end of this chapter so we'll get a lot more Peter/Neal friendship and less getting to know you business.

Also I know that the beginning of this seems like a cop out, angst and friendship wise, but I feel like Neal and Peter say a lot without ever saying anything or getting particularly 'mushy' and I didn't want to some off as false pretending that two men who've known each other a couple days are going to be best friends and share everything. That's why we're skipping ahead.

The idea of 'easier isn't right' is something I'm going to play around with in part two. I think it's important to make that distinction between this AU Neal and the regular Neal. In the show Neal does what is easy, even when he's being good and helping Peter. If there's an easy way out or a shortcut he's going to take it because his experiences have shown him that's how he'll win. In this AU Neal's never had those experiences- he's almost stubbornly taking the difficult road to prove a point. And while the higher ground may be the nobler one I think we can all agree that if Peter and Neal we both morally elite the show wouldn't work because half the criminals would get away. So Part Two is going to be Neal's transformation from noble to the moral grey ground that makes his character interesting.


	10. Chapter 10

I disclaim.

AN: Alright so this is going to be ignoring some facts about Neal's childhood that have been coming out in Season 4. They just don't fit the story I'm building here and going back to change things would change the dynamic. Since this AU it shouldn't muck up things too much.

Part Two

"Life is nothing but a competition to be the criminal rather

than the victim." Bertrand Russell

Previously...

_El should have known that Peter would be late. Expected it, after he'd run out after the young cop hours ago. She'd liked Neal, enjoyed the soft refinement in him that he seemed to be hiding under layers of 'cop'. _

_Peter needed to fix what he'd broken in the young man eyes and then he needed to come back home and hold her to him._

_But he didn't need to forget his keys. _

_She grumbled as she dragged herself to the door, muttering about forgetful husbands and pinning notes to jackets and hiding keys. Opening the door she was ready to give the wonderful, yet incredibly absent man a piece of her mind. _

_And stopped as the gun came up. _

_***********************************WC***********************************_

_And world stopped moving. _

_And then it exploded._

Chapter One

Peter rolled his eyes as Neal grinned at his host. The charming smile had lost some of its glitter from the previous day and now he just looked... odd. The black eye was fading but he was so pale it barely mattered and the sling holding his shoulder in place was like a white gash against the man's pale skin. He looked like a creepy painting, a cross between a Van Gogh and some elaborate Dutch scene, all wrong colors and lush detail.

He had to hand it to Sara, her apartment was opulent and tasteful, all rich fabrics and veneer. He was sure under normal circumstances the younger man would have fit in nicely, with his sleek suits and manners. Would he be alright now, off-balance and sick? "Go Peter." Sara brushed past him, handing a cup of tea to Neal and settling herself in a chair across the coffee table. "I'm sure your wife is annoyed enough as it is."

Neal flushed. "Yes Peter, you should go home. Tell El... tell I'm sorry about rushing out- the meal was delightful."

Peter glanced at him fondly, then caught himself. Why was he warming up so much, so quickly to this detective? "It's fine Neal, she understood. Although you're right-" He glanced at his watch. "I'm definitely going to be on the couch if I don't hurry up." Still he hesitated. Was this a good idea? It had been all he could think of in the moment. He still wasn't sure if he trusted Neal enough to be in his house all night with El but the kid certainly couldn't go home alone like he'd suggested. _He should be in a hospital. _His mind scolded him. Peter quieted it- he wasn't going to force the kid back. Initially he wanted to drop the detective at his girlfriends but Neal had been staunchly against it. Apparently they'd had a fight about him checking himself out AMA.

Sara's had been the only thing that popped into his tired mind. He knew the young woman kept odd hours and would be awake, probably working, and if nothing else, wouldn't take any nonsense and could take care of herself. He remembered her baton smacking down on a suspects leg- maybe she took care of herself a little too much. "Peter. Get going." The woman's tone had him leaving despite his reservations. He closed the door firmly behind him, hoping that there would be two breathing bodies when he returned in the morning.

***********************************WC***********************************

Sara shook her head as the FBI agent shuffled out of the room. The light haired man had clearly been tired and stressed, a condition he shared with the NYPD detective who was still with her. She wasn't sure what the two were up to, hadn't wanted to press it this late, when Peter was clearly about to collapse, but she was determined to find out before this man left her apartment in the morning.

After all, odds were it had something to do with her Zurbaran. And that meant she was involved... whether or not Burke approved.

She wasn't going to let that much money slip away because a man thought she couldn;t handle the heat. "Are you going to ask?" The detective put down his tea and met her gaze. Sara blushed as she realized she'd been staring at the expanse of chest exposed by his loose hospital scrubs while she daydreamed.

"About your injury? No I don't think we know each other well enough, or I care enough, to inquire." She sat back, sipping her tea, lips quirked as she expected the man to become unbalanced. She had that affect on people- it was why she was such a good investigator and such a... problematic friend.

"No. About whether I'd take my shirt off- you seemed rather interested in what's beneath it." The man grinned again, racking his own eyes over her and she couldn't stop her own smile from emerging.

The man looked half-dead and he was still flirting with her. Good for him. Maybe this wouldn't be the chore she'd assumed. "Actually I was thinking about the case that, I'm assuming, got you injured."

Bars slammed shut in his blue eyes as clearly as if they were actual prison doors. He sat up straighter and she realized that despite being injured and slight he quite a bit larger than her. Her fingers reached down to caress the collapsible baton she'd slipped beside her earlier, finding comfort in the cold metal. "Well you know what they say about assuming." His smile wasn't nearly as charming now. More chilling.

"Which was why I was thinking and not talking Mr... I'm sorry I've forgotten your name already."

"Neal. Call me Neal."

"No last name?"

He studied a sketch on her wall. "Not that I care to associate with."

"Alright then... Neal. I'm Sara- not sure if Peter ever properly introduced us." She smiled, a small quirk of her lips as she stood, taking both their cups to the kitchen. When she returned it was with a bundle of blankets and pillow; dumping the load onto the other chair she walked back to her seat, plucking the baton and a file that had been beside her. "I'm assuming you'd prefer to settle yourself. I'll be down the hall, if you need anything."

He met her eyes again, the barriers still present but weakened slightly. "Thank you. For letting me stay."

"I did it for Peter, not you."

"Even so. Thank you Sara." He nodded slightly.

She turned down the hall, surprised at the heat she felt when he said her name. "Good night detective." Perhaps it was better when they weren't using names. She settled herself at the small desk in her bedroom, staring at her flushed cheeks in a nearby reflection and opening her top another button. "This is not good." Sara stared at her image for a long time before turning to the file- sleep wouldn't come easy. She might as well get some work done while she waited for her pulse to calm down.

***********************************WC***********************************

El imagined, rather than felt, the bullet slamming into her forehead. The air smelt funny and it was hot and she wanted to scream but had no breath. The small body that had charged her attacker from behind and then barreled into her was solid mass. Round and firm, he'd hit her hard, making her gasp and knocking the wind out of her as they'd slammed into the wood floor.

So she stayed on the ground, listening to the second shot, feeling the heat, and then hearing something that sounded like the meat tenderizer when she smacked the chicken for a parmesan rub.

Then it was quiet but the image stayed with her and so she rolled over and staggered to the guest bathroom, terror and nausea hurrying her steps as she fled. She locked the door, throwing the small set of drawers she used to hold towels in front of the wood door before kneeling and vomiting her dinner into the toilet. Once she was done she moved to the door again, wishing she'd brought her phone or the spare gun Peter always left in his drawer or wasn't so stupid to answer the door in the middle of the night without looking. "Mrs... uh... Burke?" The quiet, small voice on the other side of the door was out of breath but calm. "Are you alright?"

"Who are you? Did my husband send you?" There was no way she was opening the door until she heard Peter's voice but if he was FBI maybe he could answer some questions.

Hesitation. "Well... no. But we're on the same side at the moment. Do you want to come out of there?"

"No!" She backed away from the door, suddenly concerned he'd try to get in. She searched for a weapon, dismissing everything but the towel rack, which was bolted into the wall but she could probably pry loose it if she tried.

"Alright." A sigh. "Honestly I don't blame you- in fact I admire your pragmatism. I mean- I could be anyone. Not that I am." He rushed to assure he. "But the truth is, anyone could be a government agent, and who knows what they're capable of once their handlers activate them. Personally I'd spend the majority of my time in a bathroom if it was physically possible... and, you know, not socially unadvisable." There was the sound of footsteps and then what sounded like a body sliding down a wall. "I just wanted to tell you, I took care of the man who trying to shoot you."

This was said as casually as the previous sentence and El blanched. "What did you do to him? Why was he trying to kill me?"

"I'd say he was trying to kill your husband and you just happened to be here instead. These things happen. Collateral damage. It's sloppy and personally I don't advise it, but sometimes the young ones can be impetuous." The voice had changed now, was lower and dangerous. "As to what I did to him... let's say I knocked him out. Nothing a little trip to the dentist won't fix." There was a strange lilt to those words that El didn't understand. Little beeps told her he was dialing the phone. "I'm calling 911 now. I'm going to stay here, right outside until they're close. Then I have to leave and I'm taking _him _with me. But listen Mrs. Suit- don't come out until your husband gets here. They'll call him- it's courtesy. Do you understand? Don't come out until he gets here."

A pause. The caterer realized that he was waiting for her to answer. "I understand."

"That's important. I don't know how far this goes. You have to tell the Suit, your husband, tell him that he shouldn't trust anyone. Tell him... tell him to look into the Blue Saint and that I'll contact him. He should ask the kid... he knows how to get a hold of me." El could just hear sirens in the distance.

"Don't trust anyone, the Blue Saint, and ask the kid how to reach you. I'll remember." She leaned her head against the drywall, wondering when her life turned into a Bourne movie. "Who are you? Peter will want to know."

"Tell him I'm the thief who stole his painting. He'll know. He's smart, for a suit." The sirens were louder now. "I'm going to leave." But El could still hear him outside, breathing heavily. "How was the kid? Is he still alright?"

Kid? El didn't know... except- "Neal? He's okay. He's going to be fine." She bit her bottom lip. "Do you know him?" No answer. She put her ear to the door again, just hearing footsteps. "Do you know him?" She asked louder, surprised when a different voice spoke, loud and official from the hall.

"Ma'am? Mrs. Burke are you alright? This is Officer Braverman from the NYPD. We're responding to a report of gunshots from these premises. It's okay now, you can come out." El backed away from the door, suddenly feeling less safe than she had when an admitted criminal was on the other side. The officer knocked loudly and she grabbed onto the towel bar, getting ready to pull it from the wall as she answered.

Peter would be here soon. She'd come out when Peter was home.


	11. Chapter 11

I know- I'm terrible. Blame the thesis.

I disclaim.

Chapter Two

"You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment if you don't trust enough."  
-Frank Crane

_Breathe in, breathe out. Take it slow, Burke._

Silently, Peter repeated the paramedics words to himself, clutching El's hand to him as if she'd fade away if he let go.

_You've got to calm down. You need to be calm for her._

He felt anything but calm at the moment, anything but at ease. Fidgeting, he felt for his gun, fingers brushing the steel as he used the shiny hospital corners to check that the guard was still outside the door. Coming home to sirens and lights had been the most horrifying moment of his life. Pushing through the crowds all he saw was a broken door and blood. Blood but no El- he'd immediately thought the worst, dropping to his knees and heading towards shock.

He gripped his wife's hand tighter.

But no, El was alive, concussed but whole, the blood belonging to the mysterious savior who apparently knew him but wanted remain in the shadows. Which could mean any of a number of shady figures. Peter was naturally wary of shadows- they made the agent in him twitchy and the man in him nervous; not a good combination for a man carrying a firearm.

Dully, he considered the cryptic message El had recited for him. _Trust no one. The Blue Saint._ What the hell was he supposed to do with that? He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to remember the last time he'd slept, what day it was, and how much paperwork would be piled on his desk by mid-afternoon. Dawn was here, sunlight listlessly illuminating the private room the Burke's had been placed in. Flowers and cards were already decorating El's tableside from his friends at the Bureau, more would be coming with the sun from her own friends. For some reason the cheery display reminded the FBI agent of Neal Reilly's empty, card-less room.

Neal.

He'd think that Peter forgot him. Had left him on purpose. But there was no way he was leaving El's side and no way that he was going to trust someone else with the kid's location, especially after the mysterious warning, which rang true despite his doubts. So how was he- "You look like you're thinking awfully hard."

Peter jumped as the voice startled him and his hand moved instinctually to his gun. But then the words and the face in front of him clicked. "Neal?" He shook his head, not sure if the man in front of him was a product of his floating mind. But no, the kid was dressed in a new suit, sharp hat on his head once more; there was even a damn pocket square peeking out from his jacket pocket. "How the hell did you get in here?"

"It was disturbingly easy actually. Sara's distracting the guard." Neal took off his head with his good hand, flipping it nervously as he edged further into the room. "She got the call early this morning. Contacts." He cryptically added, rolling his eyes. "They told us that El'd been... attacked, was in the hospital. I assumed you wouldn't be leaving so I had her drive to my apartment for a shower and a change- not that hospital sheik isn't dashing on me. But I was starting to smell less than fresh and my mother always said not to leave the house in clothes you'd be ashamed to die in." He flipped the hat high in the air and it landed square on his head. Peter rolled his own eyes at the display. "Considering the odds of my untimely end are rising by the hour I thought it best to follow he advice."

His words caused a chill to run down Peter's spine and he turned back to El's prone form. "Don't say shit like that." He spit, uncharacteristically cursing. There was silence, a long pause that made Peter self-conscious. He looked back at Neal and saw the pale man edging warily towards the door, face stricken. Peter sighed. "I'm sorry. That was... I just." He brushed a kiss to El's knuckles, "she could have... what if that man hadn't been there? What if the shooter hadn't missed?"

"Man?" Neal blurted, stepping closer again, face looking guilty and relieved all at once. "What did... was he..." The cop stopped, fingers playing with his dark sling's strap.

The guilt had Peter standing, face tightening. "What do you know? What aren't you telling me Reilly? Do you know anything about this?" He gestured at his wife, eyes wide and angry.

The younger man seemed to steal himself, resolve replacing nerves. "I didn't tell you everything last night." He looked earnestly into Peter's eyes. "I swear, I didn't know anything about this- I didn't even know he'd seen you too. But the man- he was the thief, the one from Alex Hunter's apartment- he's the one who brought me those slugs. He said I, we, could trust him. He was trying to help me- Maybe he was who saved El?" The detective ventured, trying to read Peter's expression. Trying and failing, if his anxious stance said anything. It wasn't his fault- Peter could barely process his own mind. The thief? But why would he... and why hadn't Neal said anything?

Why?

He felt his eyes narrow. Why seemed to be the question of the hour; an hour that was counting down quickly- a question he needed to answer before time ran out for them all.

Sternly he pointed at the other chair in the corner. "Sit. And start talking. And I want the truth this time Neal- all of it. Or so help me god, I'll put you back in this hospital."

***********************************WC***********************************

Mozzie wrinkled his nose as the young killer currently tied up in Saturday wet himself. The stream of urine spread to the floor- it would take longer than he'd like to bleach the floor.

Of course, if he died he wouldn't have the opportunity to bleach anything.

So the short man went about his task with the detached professionalism that made him the best at... his skill set. An hour, 3 molars, and an incisor later he knew several things: 1. the baby killers name is Nickolas Sato; 2. Sato works for Blue Saint and would have been paid pennies to kill that sweet Mrs. Suit and her husband; 3. those pennies were being supplemented by a hefty amount of coke; and 4. Julia was dead. It was the last fact that threw Mozzie into the rare rage that made him so feared.

Fifteen minutes later and the urine was overtaken by blood and his hands were still trembling.

Dead. Blown up. Taken by one of the bombs she'd run so far from, fought so hard to escape. All because he... he'd asked her to look at a damn painting. He stomped to the closet where he kept his cleaning supplies and yanked out bottle after bottle, eventually flinging the poisons, the jugs smacking into the warehouse walls, watery contents exploding. "God damn it." He bellowed, staring at the mess. "Damn it." He whispered, taking a deep breath in through his nose and glaring at the disfigured body across the room.

Getting control of himself he walked deliberately around the room, wiping his existence from Saturday.

He wouldn't be coming back.

A few more arrangements and he was carefully padlocking the steel door, mind curling with thoughts of retribution and, more importantly, escape.

When the warehouse exploded five minutes later he was long gone. Ten minutes later when the fire department arrived they wondered how a chemical fire started in an abandoned factory, but watched the abandoned building burn- no one was there, better to let the flames die out on their own. By the time the fire had burned itself out Mozzie had examined the remains of Julia's charred apartment from the pavement below, glass from the blown windows crunching under his sneakers.

As dawn rose over the city he was carefully stationed in Central Park, newspaper just below his nose, eyes focused on a statue across a grassy knoll.


	12. Chapter 12

AN: So sorry this took awhile. Hopefully the next few chapters will be up by next week. I'm trying to clear a few things up in this chapter- we learn about Blue Saint and how Mozzie's involved.

Chapter Three

***********************************WC***********************************

An Aside on the Nature of the Blue Saint and Its Involvement in the Untimely Deaths

The Blue Saint was not, as some said, a criminal organization. In fact, it was indeed a very non-criminal organization, consisting mainly of law enforcement officers. They were extremely proud of the fact that no criminal had ever been involved in their day-to-day activities (excluding occasional outsourcing for the... unsavory).

According to New York City tax records it was a gentlemen's club- the old fashioned type, with cigars and disproportionate amount of easy chairs. But according to the more knowledgeable criminal element it was a cabal of dirty cops. Cops who didn't appreciate some little grifter who thought she could scam them. _Them_. And so they took care of her and got their property back. Alex Hunter, _that_ _girl_ fence and small time grifter, had been helping the Blue Saint smuggle paintings into the United States from Mexico for several months before she tried to swindle them out of the Zurburan. Of course, she was unaware that her clients were cops and perhaps she wouldn't have tried to steal their merchandise if she had known, but the fact is that she did try to cheat them, which was where the problems started.

Because the paintings were forgeries. Good ones, but still fakes- the members of the Blue Saint weren't interested in the paint or the canvas. They were interested in the frames. The frames that were used to smuggle cocaine and other... questionable materials. The deal had been simple. Hunter got the paintings into the US and then hung at Galeria de Santo Azul for a few weeks. The curators faked the provenience and a member of the club would buy the painting legally, after which they would bring it to a Cartel to be 'reframed', before hanging it publically somewhere in an act of good will. It was lucrative for all involved until some little snot in _El Mexico _had gotten fancy and painted a 'masterpiece'. Alex Hunter had seen the thing and gotten greedy, paying off that weird little thief to steal the painting. Thankfully the Blue Saint had a man in White Collar, Colin Kent, who'd quickly and quietly found the buyer and convinced him to rat out Hunter in exchange for immunity.

But then everything got complicated. Because it turned out that Hunter removed the painting from its frame so when Kent swooped in to clean up after the undercover car 'dealt with her' he only found the worthless canvas. The disappearance of which riled up FBI white-hat Burke and that annoyingly tenacious insurance lady. Add in the fact that they had no idea where the bitch put the frame, or who the thief was, and that they had to deal with that authenticator who could blow everything wide open- well needless to say, the natives were restless.

And when the restless have guns...

***********************************WC***********************************

"Alright. What do you know?" Mozzie jumped as Burke plopped down beside him, ignoring all proper rules of clandestine meetings.

"Suit." He acknowledged coldly, glaring at the uninvited guest. The kid unfolded his newspaper and leaned against the light post on Mozzie's other side. "I thought I told you to come alone- and to signal me."

Reilly rolled his shoulder and winced as he aggravated his bullet wound. "Peter may have convinced me that a straightforward approach would be better, since we seem to be under a bit of pressure."

The thief sneered at the two cops. "And are you aware that you're being followed? That you've now led your tails straight to me?"

"You mean the tails that we lost at the Turtle Pond?" Neal smirked. "Because those tails are now wondering the Natural History Museum thanks to a few well used twenties at the waffle cart."

Mozzie huffed, satisfied but unwilling to say so. "Fine." He stood. "Follow me."

Burke hesitated. "Where to?"

"Nowhere. But this location isn't secure." When the two cops didn't follow he taunted, "Your wife trusted me Burke- I'd hate to think you're less of a man than she is." That got them moving, the Fed a little quicker than the local, who pulled the older man back when he lunged for the bald man. They walked for a few minutes, the thief gathering his thoughts before jumping into his explanation. "First of all, I want you to know that I'm absolutely disgusted with myself for dealing with the law- I make it a rule to avoid your type at any cost." He glared disdainfully at Burke, who glared back but cut his eyes quickly to Neal, a question in his gaze. A question the Mozzie rapidly put off by moving forward. "However, I'm making an exception because J-, because a friend trusted you. What did you find out about the Blue Saint?" He asked the lighted haired of the men.

Burke shrugged. "Not much. It's a gentlemen's club downtown- there was some talk in '02 about it being a front but from what I could dig up the investigation went nowhere. Looks like a regular bar."

Mossie stopped walking and turned to face the two men. "Try again. If that place is a bar then I'm Dirty Harry. Trust me suit, that investigation went nowhere because of the investigators, not the business."

"Dirty cops." Neal spoke up, his face drawn.

"Yeah kid. Half of that elitist swill is FBI, the other half's NYPD. No offense to either of your fine organizations." He sarcastically added as he turned to keep walking.

Burke's firm grip on his coat prevented him going very far. "Are telling us that this club is run by dirty cops, and no one's figured it out yet?"

"No." He jerked his coat from the Feds grip and took a deep breath to keep his Zen. "I'm saying the place is run by _retired_ cops; the actives just reap the rewards of membership."

"It has its privileges." Reilly quietly muttered under his breath.

The small thief shot the handsome man an appreciative look- it was important to keep some humor in this situation. "Come on. I know a place." Belvedere Castle wasn't exactly private, but the observatory was a good defensive position, the movement within extremely limited. It was cold and coming up on closing time, so the stone structure was mostly deserted. A twenty to the tired employee manning the desk meant they had ten minutes and the interior to themselves.

Burke rolled his eyes. "Are you sure the place isn't bugged?"

He was kidding but Mozzie replied seriously. "I swept it before I met up with you." He walked them up the two flights of stairs. Neal took up a spot in one of the windows, looking out the Victorian arch to watch the path below. He and Burke stayed in the center, staying away from the various displays in the corners. Mozzie had to admire the LEOs play- Reilly was taking a backseat role, probably letting Burke take the reins because he had less experience and to make up for not telling the older man about their earlier encounters. Honestly, the balding man would have rather dealt with the young man- he would have been easier to lead and convince, but at the moment he'd take any help that would come his way. He took a deep breath.

"Alex-"

"Alex Hunter?"

"Yes." Mozzie glared at the interruption. "Alex got involved with the Blue Saint thugs a few years ago- not a lot of people deal with them, at least not of their own free will, but she was impulsive, wanted to build herself up fast- no better way than bringing in that amount, that quickly." He tapped his shoe on the ground, his words winding him up. "They had her moving at least twenty paintings a year- paying her well too."

"How were they doing it?" Burke questioned.

Mozzie just gave him a look. "The paintings came in from Mexico and Alex set them up in Galeria de Santo Azul where members would buy them. I don't know why- they were the ugliest things I've ever seen. But you don't ask questions about the shit dirty cops are into-in fact I stayed out of the whole operation."

Neal stood, frown on his face "Santo Azul?"

"The Blue Saint Gallery. An "unrelated" gallery that the club controls. That way they can me up a provenience, get things sold as legally as possible."

"What's wrong Neal?" Peter questioned taking a step towards his partner.

"Nothing, noth... it's just. Julia went there a few weeks ago- something about a Velasquez she wanted to see."

Agent Burke frowned. "Your girlfriend Julia?

Mozzie swallowed, knowing he'd have to fess up, confess both his and Julia's involvement in the deal. After all, the girl wasn't around to do so herself. "About Julia..."

Reilly's head whipped around and he moved from the window for the first time. "What about her?"

"What do you know about her? About what she used to do?"

"She was an art teacher in Philadelphia. So what?... How do you know her name?" Dread was seeping into the young man's voice.

The thief was still hesitant. "I told you baby Suit- you have to ask the right questions. Now you have the question... are you sure you can handle the answer?"

"What do you have to say?" The Fed was getting impatient, his hand grabbing the young man's upper arm in a supportive gesture.

"I'm getting there." He took a breath, deciding to cut to the chase. "One of the paintings Alex moved was the Valazquez- probably the onlt thing in the whole gallery worth anything. But she got greedy- decided that she wanted to fence it again for twice waht she was getting from the cops. But she couldn't steal it herself so she asked me. I owed her a favor and at the time I had no idea that Blue Saint was even involved, like I said, I stayed out of that nonsense.

"So Alex got this reporter to do a write up on the painting- that way the gallery would have to leave it up for a few weeks longer than normal."

"Enough time for you to figure out how to rob the place."

"Exactly. But I had my doubts. Out of the blue a mysterious and expensive painting shows up? Where had it been? How'd it get to Mexico? So I called in a favor of my own." He looked at Neal. "And I'm sorry I did kid. You need to know that up front. If I'd known..."

The NYPD detective yanked his arm away from Burke. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Julia. I called Julia. She's- was- one of the best in the business."

Burke's voice was cold. "At authenticating or forging?"

"Both. She specialized in religious art, particularly Spanish Golden Age and colonial. But she'd been out." He stared at Reilly's devastated face, trying to make him see the truth. "She'd gone straight, didn't want anything to do with it. But she said that she'd check out the painting in the gallery if I lost her phone number. She said it was legitimate, so I went ahead with the con. I stole the painting, gave it to Alex. What she did wit it from there was up to her, but I kept an eye on the woman. I didn't trust her and she still owed me money. That was when I saw the car hit her and the suit take the painting. That's when it all started to come together."

Reilly had whipped out his phone and was holding it to his ear, unconcerned with Mozzie's deductions. "Julia pick up the phone now." He snapped into the receiver.

"Baby suit. Neal." Mozzie got his frantic attention. "That's... that's the other thing. I don;t know, what happened but Julia. She's dead." He forced the words out past aching lungs. "There was an explosion at her apartment. I went by, last night, a body came out."

"You're lying!" Reilly threw himself at the con, whose savior was Burke. The special agent jerked the thin man's body to his own, keeping him from tackling the thief. "She's fine. And she's not a... a criminal! You're lying!"

Mozzie took a step back, and then another. He hated confrontation and he had a feeling that no more serious conversation was to be had today. "I'm not lying. I wish to god I was Neal. But she died. And Neal... even though she- she was a teacher. That life, the forging, she gave that up long before she met you. She wasn't a criminal, she was just... surviving." And then he turned and scurried down the narrow winding staircase, trying to ignore the shouting echoing behind.

And if there were sobs among the shouts, well, he was going to ignore those too.


	13. Chapter 13

AN: (I'm hiding) Sorry for being so flaky with this but I've got a few other plot bunnies that keep annoying me. I know where I'm going with this though- it just needs to be written. So slow but I'll keep plugging away at it.

But to make up for it... BROMANCE!

Chapter Four

"Well?" The old man prompted his guest to speak. He was already unhappy with the necessity of having the meeting, let alone having to sit around until the rapture struck his employee.

The figure at the other end of the dark room rolled a pen between slender, pale hands. "And what assurance do I have that you won't deal with me the way you have your... recently deceased colleagues?"

"Their deaths were their own damn faults- they got cocky, made mistakes. I trust you won't make the same."

"I have a condition- I don't steal where others shit. No more killing. There's already enough cops involved in this crap, I don't need more sniffing around."

"With Reilly and Burke that may be difficult. They already know too much. That damn little thief has been sniffing around and filling their heads with things best keep private."

"Then put them in the hospital- keep them off the street- but you kill them and I guarantee this won't get done. I don't care if the entire NYPD wants to beat Reilly within an inch of his life- we can; touch him. You don't kill a cop in New York City. Not even if you are one."

***********************************WC***********************************

El kept wiggling beside him. He held his breath, hoping it was his imagination and she wasn't awake. He was in no mood to talk and she needed her rest.

He'd only fetched her from the hospital a few hours ago. Peter groaned as the side table light turned on and she poked him. He squeezed his eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. "Peter Burke I know you're awake and if you don't sit up this minute..." His wife threatened.

He sighed and rolled over, facing her. "You need your rest El. At least try and get some sleep."

She bit her lip. "I just can't settle down knowing that someone out there knows our address and may be trying to kill you."

He softened at her worried words. Of course she was more concerned with him than with the fact someone tried to shot her 24 hours ago. "Don't worry about me- my one concern is keeping you safe." As he was reassuring her he felt guilty- he hadn't told her it was possibly someone within the NYPD or FBI who was after them. She'd just seemed so comforted by the squad and undercover car outside. He couldn't bear to make her even more anxious.

Seeing her upset face he grimaced and sat up. Apparently that wasn't her only concern. "What's wrong?"

El twisted her wedding band, eyes on the door. "I think you should go check on him."

"Who?" He said, before he shook himself, remembering that he'd brought Neal home a few hours ago, after El had pestered him into revealing what had happened that day, that Julia was dead, that Neal felt she'd betrayed him.

The second he'd told her the whole story, minus a few details about the actual case, she'd gone absolutely hysteric. The FBI agent wasn't sure if it was her mothering instinct or her fear induced need to nest, but his wife had gone from concerned to terrifying in 60 seconds. First, she'd ripped into him about leaving a man who'd been recently shot alone in his apartment, let alone taken him out on a case, then she'd started in on the emotional trauma of loving and losing and why people-just-didn't-leave-people-who'd-been-traumatized, finally ending the night by sending him to Neal's apartment to bring the kid and an overnight bag to their house immediately. Or else.

He'd been pondering how the kid had gotten him kicked out of his house twice in almost as many days when he knocked on the door, expecting to see a miserable but capable Reilly upset at being woken. What he'd found instead was an absolutely wrecked kid.

Apparently, Neal had taken out his rage on most of his apartment, which was a dump to begin with- paintings were torn from the wall, glasses and plates smashed, sofa cushions thrown. And after that the kid had crawled into a bottle of too expensive whiskey and decided to stay there for good.

With a sigh, Peter had righted the cushions and pushed the young detective on the couch, briefly trying to wrestle the scotch bottle but giving it up when Neal put up a good fight. He could have managed to rip it away, but was concerned about aggravating the kids arm. He cleaned what was in his way as he packed a bag, rescuing a picture of Neal and Julia from the rubbish bin impetuously. Neal deserved a chance to mourn her properly when he wasn't high on pain medication, booze, and betrayal.

Getting the man into the car was as easy as indicating that he was his friend and concerned about him. Peter didn't want to dwell on how desperate the kid was for friends or how someone (those morons he worked with) could manipulate that. He'd drawn the line at bringing the open container in the car, convincing Neal there was more booze at his house and leaving the bottle on top of a fence for some lucky drunk.

Neal had passed out in the car and Peter had almost thrown his back out getting him from the car, determined not to let the NYPD officer guarding the house at the time see the detectives low. El had immediately tucked the younger man into the guest bedroom and Peter had floowed behind, making sure he was on his side in case he threw up. But El had still fretted all through dinner and Peter was starting to share some of her anxiety.

"He's asleep El." He sat up, rubbing her back. "The amount of booze he drank- he'll be asleep well into the morning." She shot him a look. "But... I'll go check. If you're that worried."

Still twisting her ring she kissed him, patting him on the bottom as he left. "My hero."

"Yeah, yeah," he smiled at her, pulling on a robe and heading down the hall to the guest bedroom. He didn't quite make it though, the sound of retching making him detour to the guest bath. "Neal? Buddy?" The only reply was more heaving and so Peter tried the handle, successful when it turned, allowing him into the tiled space without trouble.

Neal Reilly was hunched over the toilet, face white as he purged the alcohol from his system. The kid looked miserable and all Peter wanted was to run back to his room and get El to deal with this. But Neal looked so pathetic when he glanced at him and Peter knew even after a few days, that the proud kid wouldn't appreciate another visitor.

Helplessly, Peter thought about what his wife would do in this situation. Grabbing a washcloth he soaked it in cold water, ringing it out before laying it on Neal's neck. He got another ready too, just in case to kid wanted to wipe his face. Finally, he filled a small cup with water and lowered himself down to sit on the floor with most recent responsibly. Finally the kid seemed to be finished and Peter offered him the washcloth and water, hoping he was steady enough to handle both himself.

After a few minutes of clean up they both just sat there, silently contemplating the tile. Peter wondered if Neal's father ever sat with his son when he was sick, wondered if he himself would ever have a son to sit here with, cold seeping into the soles of his feet, bile in his nostrils. "I'm sorry." Neal whispered, face aflame.

"No reason to be." Peter kept examining the grout. "The last few days you've been shot, found out a friend's been killed and that your own people may be trying to kill you. It's enough to send anyone to the bottle."

"Not you?" Neal whispered again.

Peter figured that his throat was sore from all the activity of the day. "I've got responsibilities." He nodded towards his bedroom, hoping that Neal at least remembered they were at his house. "Can't go to pieces, no matter h much I'd like too. Not to mention," he paused, "I'd say the days revelations were a bit harder on you." Neal had made him drive past the bomb site and then pull up Julia's file before dropping him off. Honestly, it had been irresponsible for Peter to let him be pressured into it, but he'd been in a little shock himself at the time. Neal swiped at his eyes, cheeks flaming. The FBI agent looked away from the floor and into the kids eyes, wanting him to know he was serious. "It's okay sometimes, to be upset. It's nothing to be ashamed about."

Neal nodded. "I just thought... she was the one thing you know... that wasn't 'this'. I told her things... about my father. Stupid." Peter knew there was nothing that Neal wanted to hear at the moment and so stayed silent, instead risking a gesture and putting his hand on Neal's back.

The kid was warm, probably feverish with infection from his arm. "Think you can get up?"

"Yeah. But I may sit awhile, not quite sure I'm done you know." He said sheepishly.

Peter smiled. "Alright. You know where the guest room is?" A nod. "Then I guess I'll head back- we're just down the hall if you need anything." He heaved himself up, silently upset that it took as much effort as it did. He paused, hand on the door. "Tomorrow's a new day Neal."

"There'll still be problems." The kid answered pessimistically.

Peter opened the door and stepped out, looking down at his houseguest. "Then we'll tackle them together." And with that he shut Neal into the bathroom again, carefully dimming the hall light for the kids walk back to his room.

Getting back to his own he saw that El had turned out the light again but was still leaning against the headboard. "Is he alright?" She inquired, concern still lacing her tone.

But unlike before, he didn't find it annoying. It wasn't her fault that was worried and he was a grumpy old man. He was lucky to have her, lucky that she hadn't been taken from him by death or lies, lucky that she loved him and his partners. His friends.

"He will be. Kid'll bounce back." He slid into bed and cuddled her to him. "Between the two of us I'm sure he'll be smothered to death."


End file.
